


no more unhandsome

by Waywarder



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, As You Like It, Big Gay Love Story, Consent is Sexy, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Nonbinary Aziraphale (Good Omens), References to Shakespeare, Shakespeare Quotations, She/Her/They/Them Pronouns for Crowley, They/Them Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:35:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waywarder/pseuds/Waywarder
Summary: Aziraphale and their best friend Anathema are starting their own Shakespeare Company, and Aziraphale dreams of playing Rosalind in their inaugural production of As You Like It.But then rival actor (and admitted flash bastard) Anthony J. Crowley shows up at auditions.Welcome to theAs You Like It-inspired Good Omens Shakespeare Company AU! Thanks for being here!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 114
Collections: Good Omens Rom Com Event





	1. what think you of falling in love?, or: i guess that's why they call it the blues

_(as i remember, adam, it was upon this fashion...)_

The audition was in one hour, and Aziraphale’s hair was simply not cooperating.

Everything else was perfect. They were off book on each of their sides (they were off book on the whole show, which they would only have told you if you’d thought to ask them), they’d spent all morning doing a nice, thorough vocal warm-up, and their outfit, well…

Oh, it was all going to be absolutely perfect.

Aziraphale huffed at their reflection in their bathroom mirror, giving their messy hair one last opportunity to behave itself before they went to get dressed.

 _Anathema knows what you look like,_ Aziraphale thought. _Her Rosalind can have messy hair. Don’t be silly._

Just in case of a miracle, Aziraphale ran their fingers through their white-blonde curls one last time.

“Fine,” Aziraphale snipped at their reflection. “Just be like that, won’t you?”

When they’d moved in together a few months ago, Anathema had insisted that Aziraphale take the master bedroom, even though she paid more in rent than they did. They didn’t talk about the “why,” and Aziraphale was very grateful. For Anathema’s generosity and kindness as well as for the room.

 _A room of one’s own,_ Aziraphale smiled to themself as they retreated from the bathroom, walked past their filled-to-bursting bookshelf, and approached their bed, which was where their audition outfit was already laid out. Anathema hadn’t even seen it, which was remarkable, considering that Aziraphale rarely went shopping for clothes unless Anathema insisted on it. Aziraphale generally preferred to spend their money on books and pastries and, well, rent, but, oh, they had been looking forward to this.

Aziraphale stepped out of their plain, white bathrobe, and let it fall to the floor. They began by pulling on their boxers, and then wiggling into their sports bra (they didn't play sports). They removed the light blue, button-up (it complimented their eyes) carefully from its hanger, and slid their arms into the sleeves, revelling in the coolness of the material. They stepped into the trousers, and tucked in the shirt. The pants were a little on the snug side, it’s true that they had probably put on a few pounds lately, and-

 _Stop._ Aziraphale thought, firmly. _Not today. Please not today._

This next part was the most exciting part, after all.

They had found the waistcoat at a thrift store, and couldn’t believe their luck. Aziraphale traced their fingers over the soft, slighly worn fabric. The slight shabbiness to the gold almost made Aziraphale love it more. This garment had been loved, had been lived in, perhaps had even been _adventured_ in. Moreover, putting it on made Aziraphale feel… Possible. They felt so many possibilites within that old waistcoat. They felt comfortable, they felt valid.

They finally felt like Aziraphale.

Aziraphale didn’t fight the smile that stole over their face as they buttoned up the waistcoat. Finally, fingers trembling just so slightly with excitement, they picked up the final piece.

In addition to memorizing their lines, they’d been watching YouTube videos all week to get ready for this occasion. 

“Adjust until one side is slightly longer than the other…” Aziraphale recited from the videos, brow furrowed in concentration. They knew that looking in the mirror would certainly make this much easier, but they’d been practicing all week, and they wanted to see the finished effect all at once.

They adjusted the knot ever so slightly, and… There.

Taking a deep breath, they walked back into the bathroom, eyes carefully avoiding the mirror. They looked down instead at their own clenched, yet still shaking fists. 

“ _Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier?_ ” They whispered quickly under their breath.

The lines were still there. 

This was it.

_(About a month ago:_

_Anathema and Aziraphale sat on their new, bare floor, passing back and forth a bottle of wine, surrounded by moving boxes, and, once again, cursing aloud the fucking Tadfield Shakespeare Company._

_“He said that casting women as the leads would be a ‘gimmick!’ I can’t, Aziraphale!” Anathema bellowed._

_Aziraphale didn’t have anything to say that they hadn’t said a million times before. They just rolled their eyes, and took another swig of wine._

_“Ugh, but I suppose the RSC won’t have us, so what do we do?” Anathema dramatically flopped back against the floor, rubbing her eyes._

_What do we do?_

_“We stop waiting for permission,” Aziraphale crawled over to Anathema, too tipsy to stand up. They took their best friend’s hands in theirs. “We start our own company, Anathema.”_

_Anathema’s eyes grew wide._

_“I don’t… of course, I don’t mean to presume upon your family’s resources,” Aziraphale was quick to establish this. “But, well… I’ve thought about it for an awfully long time, and I think it’s time. We just need to prove ourselves with one successful production. We can pool our money, produce the thing ourselves, and you can direct. We can cast whomever we like. We can do Shakespeare that looks like us, that feels like us.”_

_It was a rare sight, the speechless Anathema._

_“Do you hate the idea?” Aziraphale prepared themself for all the reasons it wouldn’t work, all the reasons it was crazy-_

_Anathema grabbed their face so hard they yelped out loud._

_“You mad genius,” she was deadly serious. “That’s brilliant. That’s perfect. We’re doing it. I’ll put up an audition notice tomorrow.”_

_“Anathema!” Aziraphale fought to keep the glee out of their voice. This was the time to talk logistics, after all. To be serious and prove that they could pull this off. “ Tomorrow? What about a venue? What about a crew? What about a title, yes?”_

_“Well, what show do you want to do?”_

_Oh, Aziraphale had hoped she’d ask. The words tumbled out of them:_

_“As You Like It. We should start with As You Like It.”_

_Anathema smiled, knowingly despite her drunkenness. “As You Like It it is. See you at auditions, Rosalind.”)_

Aziraphale looked into the mirror. 

They sucked in a breath, and tears sprang to their eyes. 

“Silly,” Aziraphale murmured, thickly, immediately, but their heart wasn’t really there in the admonishment. This was allowed to be a Big Deal.

You see, today was to be their first audition since coming out as… well.

They. 

Aziraphale certainly understood and empathized with all of Anathema’s frustrations with the Tadfield Shakespeare Company, but they had actually enjoyed a decent bit of success there.

She had, anyway.

For Tadfield Shakes, Aziraphale had played Nerissa, played a Witch or two, even played Beatrice on one marvelous occasion… and they had been good, they knew that. Aziraphale wasn’t generally the most confident person, but they knew that they were good at Shakespeare. They knew that they belonged on a stage, alongside stories and poetry. 

But then they had come out as nonbinary, and it rather seemed as though the company didn’t know what to do with them anymore. Parts were no longer offered to them, and even audition notices felt scanty now. And Aziraphale had tried to be okay with it all, really they had. They still had their bookshop job, after all. And they had Anathema, and they had their room now, and they had all the memories of the roles they had played in the past.

Couldn’t that be enough?

A quiet brave voice inside Aziraphale knew that it shouldn’t be enough. And that quiet brave voice had made itself known on their drunken night with Anathema. Because they didn’t need an established Shakespeare Company telling them what to do, telling them who they were, telling them what they were _worth._

Anathema was an excellent director, and Aziraphale was a marvelous actor, and their other weirdo friends in the company would surely follow them. They would be okay. They would create art on their terms, at last.

And the opportunity to play a character like Rosalind… like _Ganymede._ Someone brave and smart and beautiful and, in Aziraphale’s reading of the text, genderfluid as well. To get to play that character, to stand up on stage and deliver that beautiful epilogue… 

_It is not the fashion to see the nonbinary kid the epilogue._

This whole enterprise- starting the company with Anathema, playing Rosalind- it all felt like proof that they were going to be okay. That they were still going to be an actor. That they were going to be happy.

And that they looked wonderful in a bowtie.

There was a knock at the door. Aziraphale stole one last glance at the mirror, willing themself to commit this moment to memory forever. _When you were handsome, and when everything was going to be okay._

They left the bathroom, and went to answer their bedroom door, preparing for the reaction that would surely follow:

And, yes, Anathema gasped when she saw them.

“ _Aziraphale!_ ” Anathema’s hands reached out to touch the waistcoat, immediately. She was touchy, Anathema was. “Friend, you look _amazing!_ ”

Aziraphale blushed a little, casting their eyes down at the floor to try to hide their pride. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely smashing,” Anathema confirmed. And then she presented her arm to her best friend. “Ready to get started?”

And Aziraphale was.

_(“Aziraphale!” Anathema was at their little kitchen island, working furiously on the audition notice. “We need a company name!”_

_Aziraphale set down their mug of tea, and considered the question._

_“I mean, it’s only going to be the best Shakespeare company in the world,” Anathema went on, chewing a little on her pencil. “How do we possibly contain that in words, you know?”_

_And Aziraphale smiled, because they had worked it all out._

_“What about…)_

***

There it was printed in bold type on a piece of printer paper on the door of the space that Anathema had procured for the audition:

_(“Sweet lady named Tracey rented it out,” Anathema had explained. “A little weird, but her rates were reasonable!”_

_Aziraphale nodded, too eager to worry much about how strange this Tracey character might be.)_

**The Ineffable Shakespeare Company.**

Aziraphale and Anathema walked into the bare space, and began to lovingly set up. There was an old card table for checking in, there were the audition forms that they had printed out together, there were the pens that Aziraphale had collected from their own desk at home…

And then there were the auditionees who began to trickle in. Some of them Aziraphale recognized from Tadfield Shakes, some of them were entirely new to them.

_(We’ll get to know them better, I promise you.)_

It was happening.

“Anathema, it’s time to get started, isn’t it?” Aziraphale looked over to where Anathema was studying her clipboard.

“Oh, we’re just waiting on one more.”

It must have been quite fascinating, that clipboard, because Anathema did not look up at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale casually looked over their fellow auditionees. There were good actors here, yes, but Aziraphale didn’t really consider anyone else specific competition for Rosalind. 

This was happening. Everything was going to be-

Everyone’s frantic and quiet concentration was broken by the horrid noise of wheels screeching outside. For just a moment, Aziraphale also thought they could hear the strains of “Bohemian Rhapsody” playing, but they must have imagined it, because suddenly everything grew silent again.

Aziraphale looked over again to Anathema, who was pointedly avoiding their gaze. 

“Oh, good,” she said a little meekly, especially by Anathema’s standards. “Sounds like everyone is here.”

And then the front door practically flew open, and in walked (sorry, in _sauntered_ ) a tall, lanky figure clad in all black. Their auburn hair flowed wildly over their shoulders, and their boots were impossibly cool, and their hips swayed in a manner that really ought to have been considered illegal, in Aziraphale’s humble opinion. 

Aziraphale rolled their eyes, anything to try to stifle the flustered panic steadily rising in their chest as they put this particular puzzle together.

“Oh, Good Lord,” they murmured to themself. 

“Hi, guys,” Anthony J. Crowley tilted her head in greeting to the room of auditionees, some looking terribly scandalized by the dramatic entrance, some gawking in admiration.

Anthony J. Crowley.

Anthony J. Crowley had been a thorn in Aziraphale’s side for their entire career. Whenever Aziraphale had dared venture outside of the relative comfort of their homebase at Tadfield Shakes, there had been Crowley, tall and striking and cool and interesting and…

Aziraphale had never gotten a part over Anthony J. Crowley. 

_(“Anthony?” Aziraphale had asked, a little confused, in their first audition waiting room together._

_Crowley raised an eyebrow at them. “You don’t like it?”_

_“Well, it’s just… I’d always thought of ‘Anthony’ as a name for a... “ Aziraphale felt terribly old-fashioned and stupid, and turned her attention back to her sensible skirt, rubbing her twitchy hands against the wool to try to settle down._

_Crowley laughed at that, throwing her head back a little so that her red hair caught the light._

_“Well, what sort of name is ‘Aziraphale?’”_

_“If you must know, I was named after an angel.”_

_“‘If you must know,’” Crowley repeated, mocking Aziraphale’s prim tone._

_Aziraphale opened her mouth for what would have certainly been a scathing retort, but then one of the auditors was coming out into the waiting room._

_“Crowley, are you ready?”_

_“Always,” Crowley smirked. She collected her headshot and her resume, and started toward the door, but not before turning over her shoulder to glance back at Aziraphale._

_“Break a leg, angel.”_

_Crowley had gotten the part.)_

Tadfield Shakes would have been too impossibly uptight and stuffy by Crowley’s standards, of course, so she and Aziraphale had never actually performed together. But Aziraphale had seen her perform. Crowley tended to end up in exciting, experimental new works, performed in converted barns and warehouses. 

She was always excellent.

Aziraphale had always taken comfort in the notion that, surely, Crowley didn’t care about anything as old-fashioned as Shakespeare, but now here she was, filling out an audition form, sucking on the end of a pen that Aziraphale themself had put out on the table earlier for _everyone’s use._

Aziraphale darted their eyes again toward Anathema, who did have the good grace to meet them this time. She shrugged a little in apology.

“She signed up, friend,” Anathema said. “We’re not big enough to start turning anyway away yet, you know?”

Aziraphale nodded, beginning to feel a little ill.

They had never lost a part to Anthony J. Crowley.

“Alright, everyone!” Anathema clapped her hands together, gathering the attention of the rest of the room. All eyes immediately went to her.

All eyes, Aziraphale noted, except for Anthony J. Crowley’s. No, they were still hidden behind her ridiculous sunglasses, and she appeared to still be entirely focused on the audition form.

 _Should have been here on time, then,_ Aziraphale couldn’t help the thought, snippy and irritated.

“Everyone, welcome to auditions for the inaugural production of the Ineffable Shakespeare Company!” Anathema held for applause, and it did come. This little gaggle of artists clapped at the prospect of what they could create together, and, despite Anthony J. Crowley’s presence, Aziraphale smiled. 

This was happening.

***

Aziraphale was the first to read for Rosalind. They walked into the audition room, faced down their best friend/director, and read entirely from memory, in their dapper waistcoat and bowtie.

And they were… fine?

They walked back into the crowd of the rest of the auditionees, feeling confused and frustrated. Something was off. This wasn’t their best, and they knew it. Trembling a little, they walked back over to their bag and their water bottle. They lifted the latter to their lips, and took a long draught.

It was fine. It was just their first time in the room. Anathema would have them read again.

And, sure enough, after a moment, Anathema walked back into the room, clipboard in hand, looking very important and very pleased with herself.

“Okay, now…” she scanned the room. “Crowley, I want _you_ to look at Rosalind.”

Ice water flooded Aziraphale’s veins. _What?_ She couldn’t possibly… _she couldn’t._

“Yeah, Crowley, look at Rosalind. It’s Side 5,” Anathema’s eyes continued to flick over the room of auditonees. “And Orlando for this one…”

Her eyes settled on them.

_No. Absolutely not._

“Aziraphale,” Anathema cocked her head to the side, obviously filled with curiosity and delight by this new prospect. “Aziraphale and Crowley, Side 5!”

And then she flounced off back into the audition room.

_Oh, fuck._

“Shall we?” Crowley drawled. Aziraphale had never met anyone who drawled as much as Anthony J. Crowley.

“I suppose we must,” Aziraphale made an attempt at a friendly smile, but their heart was beating too furiously against their chest. 

Every audition is a risk. You put your heart on the line, you expose all your veins and your guts, and sometimes it just isn’t enough. Sometimes, perhaps, it’s just the shape of your nose that wasn’t quite what the director had in mind, and it doesn’t matter how hard you worked, or even how good you are, or (especially) how much the role might mean to you. Sometimes you can never be enough.

Aziraphale looked hard at Anthony J. Crowley, and suspected that they would never feel enough around them.

“ _I pray you,_ ” Crowley began, and it mangled Aziraphale’s heart to hear their beloved text in that mouth. “ _What is’t o’clock?_ ”

“ _You should ask me what time o’day,_ ” Aziraphale felt flustered, off their game. “ _There’s no clock in the forest._ ”

Crowley grinned, all confidence and swagger. “ _Then there is no true lover in the forest; else sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock._ ”

“Do you think you’d be so confident?” Aziraphale dropped character, couldn’t help themself. “Aren’t you… aren’t they worried in this moment?”

Crowley shrugged, and it was maddening. “Maybe your Rosalind would be worried, angel. My Rosalind isn’t.”

_My Rosalind._

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale, again, couldn’t help themself. “Since when are you interested in the classics?”

“Oh, come off it, angel. You don’t know anything about me or what I’m interested in.”

“Must you insist on calling me that?”

“What, ‘angel?’ ‘S what you are, isn’t it?” Crowley raised an eyebrow above her dark glasses. “Pure, innocent, good, bit holier than thou…”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” Aziraphale raised their voice above Crowley’s. “That you don’t know anything about me either?”

“So, tell me.”

But Aziraphale didn’t have a chance to tell Crowley anything, because Anathema was coming back out of the audition room, still clutching her damned clipboard.

“Ready, you two?”

 _No! Absolutely not! We haven’t even got through the whole scene once!_ Aziraphale panicked, but before they could open their mouth-

“We were born ready.”

And Crowley was already walking ahead of them into the room.

***

_(Aziraphale would only remember it later in little pieces:_

_Crowley taking off those stupid, bloody glasses. Crowley circling them, making them feel so exposed and vulnerable._

_“Fair youth,” Aziraphale recited, and, by the devil, she was fair. “I would I could make thee believe I love.”_

_Crowley barked at that, her head tossed back, her hair catching the light. “Me believe it! You may as soon make her that you love believe it…”_

_Anthony J. Crowley’s eyes. Gleaming like fireflies in the dark of night._

_“I would not be cured, youth,” Aziraphale stammered, not on purpose. Not a choice. Fuck, they didn’t even feel like they were acting anymore._

_And then Crowley took their hand in hers, strong, certain, determined._

_She was a force of nature._

_“I would cure you,” she challenged, and, quite without meaning to, Aziraphale sucked in an audible breath.”_

_Crowley grinned at them._

_No, perhaps not._

_This time, Crowley smiled.)_

***

Anathema put up the cast list that night. She couldn’t help herself.

“Welcome to Arden, friends,” she declared.

Aziraphale, not certain their heart could sink any deeper into the darkness of the Earth, looked at the list anyway. They already knew what it would say.

A long, pale hand with nails coated in black polish clapped them on the shoulder.

“Looking forward to working with you, angel,” Crowley drawled, and then she sauntered away, and then there was the screech again of wheels, and the sounds of Queen blaring into the night. 

The spot on their shoulder where Crowley had touched them burned like hellfire.

This couldn’t be happening.

*** 

Aziraphale fought the unfamiliar urge to slam their bedroom door shut. Anathema had walked home with them, after all. Had surely already noticed the misery seething off of them, though they had not yet talked about it. It has been a quiet walk, admittedly. But she would hear the door slam, and she would know something was wrong, and she would want to talk about it, and, oh goodness, she might very possibly get some crystals involved…

Aziraphale politely closed their door behind them, and immediately felt their face scrunch up.

“Ridiculous,” they admonished themself as the tears began to flow. 

They went into their bathroom, again careful not to make too many obvious noises of distress. They looked at themself in the mirror.

Their hair was still a:

“ _Complete mess,_ ” Aziraphale choked out, their anguish transforming into something like fury. At their stupid hair, at their stupid belly, at Anathema, that traitor, at themself always always always, and at…

Crowley.

Aziraphale felt their whole face heat up at the thought of Crowley. Out of anger, at first, and then immediately out of shame. It wasn’t Crowley’s fault that they weren’t playing Rosalind.

It was their own fault. Always. Crowley had been wonderful in the room, and Aziraphale had been…

Aziraphale hastily turned on the shower, relying on the sounds of the water to cover up what were now becoming out and out sobs. 

_Pathetic._

Aziraphale drew in a shaky breath, and looked back at themself in the mirror. Eyes swollen and red. They were a mess.

“Now, look here,” they told their reflection. “You get one good sorry-for-yourself shower cry, and then we’re done about this, yes?”

They watched themself nod.

“Well, then.”

So, they began to undress. Began to peel off all the carefully, painstakingly chosen layers meant to carry them to Shakespearean glory earlier. 

This thing that had mattered so much for so long, that had mattered so much up until mere hours ago… The worthless pieces now discarded on their bathroom floor. 

“Orlando is an excellent role,” they said out loud again, unable to look at their reflection now that they were naked. “You should be excited.”

They stepped into the warm water, and tried to calm down. Washed their unruly hair, and tried to consider all the exciting possibilities that lay ahead of them in playing Orlando. Scrubbed behind their ears, and tried to feel warm, fuzzy, generous feelings for everyone who would be working on the show. Bit down hard on their lower lip, and tried not to fucking scream.

They turned off the stream of water, and stepped out of the shower, toweling off and wrapping back up in their robe. They looked again in the mirror.

_Soft and swollen and puffy-eyed and selfish and foolish and ridiculous._

“Not helping,” Aziraphale snapped, flicking off the bathroom light and returning to their room. 

They still felt agitated. They sank down onto their bed, still clad in their robe.

Anthony. Fucking. J. Fucking. Crowley.

Anthony J. Crowley with her cool boots and her tight jeans and her red hair and her black fingernails, and, okay, FINE, her apparent command of Shakespearean text… 

Why couldn’t she have just let Aziraphale have this?

Aziraphale remembered Crowley’s eyes during the audition. That mischievous glint in her eyes at, “ _I would cure you._ ”

With horror, Aziraphale recognized another feeling inside of them, buried deep beneath the fury and the disappointment and the agitation.

“No,” Aziraphale said out loud. “Absolutely not.”

_I would cure you._

The idea didn’t occur to them very often, honestly. What was the point, after all? To feel _good?_ Books felt good, pastries felt good, poring over a soliloquy felt good. Fidgeting and worrying at least felt _natural._

But Anathema had gifted them a…. well, what one could consider a useful tool in this particular set of circumstances… for their birthday last year. It was in the drawer of their bedside table, still untouched. 

_How would I even start?_ Aziraphale wondered, still sniffling a little. 

A new and horribly punishing thought occurred to them: _That’s why it’s Crowley, you know, and not you. Who’d believe someone falling in love with you for two hours? But Crowley… that sexy demon. They understand their body. Don’t worry about everything all the time. Aren’t confused and ridiculous and soft. They’re probably off having sex with a tall, dark, mysterious stranger right now. Probably didn’t give it a second thought. Probably found them in a dark, sexy bar somewhere, and, with those eyes alone, led them out into an alley, probably didn't even care who saw them, probably commanded Sexy-Bar-Stranger down to their knees in the filthy alley, probably…_

Aziraphale felt their face become red, felt the heat growing between their legs. The picture was so clear in their head. Tall, gorgeous, talented Crowley, that red hair wild around their shoulders, their hand cupping the chin of some poor, besotted stranger. 

Maybe a soft stranger with white-blonde hair and a bow tie?

“Fuck,” whispered Aziraphale, still careful not to let Anathema hear. Oh, she’d love this too much. The sheer fucking _drama_ of it all. Her Orlando fantasizing about her Rosalind. She’d never leave it alone.

_Leave it alone, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale opened their bedside drawer. Removed the little, alien, egg-looking device. Aziraphale pressed the little blue button on the top. Goodness, but the device was so LOUD. Aziraphale panicked, and pressed it “off” again.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

They left the device (“It’s a vibrator, you ridiculous thing,” Aziraphale thought.) on the bed, and went to fumble through their messenger bag. They retrieved the mobile phone that Anathema had insisted they procure. She texted them their horoscope most mornings.

They found the Spotify app, which they rather liked, actually. It was nice to have some background music on for reading, for studying text. They found their “On Repeat” playlist, and pressed Play.

_Don’t wish it away  
Don’t look at it like it’s forever_

_Perfect,_ Aziraphale thought. Anathema would just think they were in there, feeling sorry for themself. Anathema knew not to bother them when Elton John was playing. 

The poor, queer bastard.

_Between you and me I could honestly say  
That things can only get better_

Aziraphale locked their door, just to be on the safe side, and then wandered back to their bed. It was covered in various editions of _As You Like It,_ and printed, carefully highlighted articles about Shakespeare and gender. Heartbroken though they were, Aziraphale took the time to collect them all into a nice, neat pile, and deposit them on their desk. 

It was never a book’s fault, after all.

_And while I'm away  
Dust out the demons inside  
And it won't be long before you and me run  
To the place in our hearts where we hide_

Bed clear, door locked, music playing, there were no excuses to linger anymore. Aziraphale took a deep breath, and sat back down on their bed. Ran a hand along their soft, tartan sheets. Crowley probably slept on silky, black sheets. Hair all loose and fanned out beneath them. Probably not wearing anything at all.

Aziraphale groaned. This was a terrible idea. 

They laid back against their pillows, and took another deep breath. Why was this so terrifying? 

They reached for the… vibrator again. Pressed the little blue button, and there was the horrid buzzing.

_And I guess that’s why they call it the blues_

Thanks, Elton.

Aziraphale undid the tie on their robe, and let it fall open to either side of them. They looked down the length of their body. Pale. Soft. They didn’t know what else to call it. They didn’t know what other words to use yet. It was all still new and confusing and frustrating. They regarded their breasts, looked further south to the soft, pink area between their legs… 

And hating nearly everything in the entire world, but, at that moment, _specifically:_ the construct of gender, themself, their best friend, and damn Anthony J. Crowley, they brought their hand and the vibrator down between their parted legs.

_Time on my hands could be time spent with you_

_(to liberty and not to banishment)_


	2. this life is most jolly, or: rocket man (i think it's going to be a long, long time)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As Aziraphale worked to come up with a clever reply, and also worked very hard to not imagine Crowley without pants on, Crowley suddenly asked:_
> 
> _“Do you have anything to drink?”_
> 
> _“Me?”_
> 
> _“Aziraphale, who else, in Satan’s name, would I possibly be talking to?”_
> 
> _“Well, if you must know, I have a rather nice bottle of wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”_
> 
> _“Well, go get it, then.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale felt their cheeks color even more: Was this a special occasion?_
> 
> _“What about…” Aziraphale flailed about for an excuse. “Well, what about opening night?”_
> 
> _“Angel,” and there was a softness now in Crowley’s tone. “There might not be an opening night. Go get your wine.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale hesitated._
> 
> _“Go on, then. ‘M not going anywhere.”_
> 
> _Aziraphale swallowed, perhaps a bit too hard, and got up from their desk._
> 
> In which, like so many artists right now, the gang over at Ineffable Shakespeare works to navigate their new normal, and still rehearse their show.

_(now, my co-mates and brothers in exile…)_

(This isn’t how this was supposed to go, friends. But here we are:)

Aziraphale woke up the next morning, naked and alone, eyes swollen from crying, to a knock at their bedroom door. They hurried to stash their vibrator back in their bedside drawer, and retrieved their robe from where it was crumpled up at the foot of their bed. They dashed into the bathroom quickly, just to splash water on to their face, and finally:

Naturally, it was Anathema at the door.

Anathema, holding her phone, and shaking a little bit.

(We all know how this next part goes, so let’s make it quick, shall we? It isn’t terribly plesant.)

“Cancelled? Anathema, but we can’t-”

“Aziraphale, I don’t know what to tell you,” Anathema said, sadly. “Everything is shut down. They’re telling us not to leave the house. It isn’t safe anymore.” 

And a million things ought to have occurred to Aziraphale in that dreadful moment; for example, with the bookshop closed, how would they manage to pay their portion of the rent? But there was only one thing fiercely on their mind.

Aziraphale might not be playing the part that they wanted to play, they might still be furious with Anathema, though they were softening considerably at the sight of their distraught best friend, scrolling through the news on her phone, and they might have felt quite better off secure in the knowledge that they never had to see Anthony J. Crowley’s face ever again, BUT:

The show must go on.

Aziraphale clasped Anathema by the shoulders, and looked deep into her eyes, willing their sudden determination to infect her as well. She met their gaze, and nodded.

_What you will._

(Wrong play, I know.)

So, Aziraphale went to make a cup of strong tea, set some biscuits on a nice plate, returned to their room, cranked up their music, and set out to do what they did best.

They were going to work this out.

_And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time  
'Till touch down brings me round again to find_

***

Let’s take a closer peek at this nerd, shall we?

Of course, they weren’t happy with the circumstances, weren’t happy that anything at all had negatively impacted their show.

But, oh, how they thrived on _this._

They clacked away fervently at the laptop on their desk, scribbling down notes across various notebooks and loose sheets of paper. Reading articles written by other theatre companies about how they planned to move forward during the crisis, experimenting with different sorts of meeting programs (Which was better, Zoom or Google Hangout?!), painstakingly cobbling together a new rehearsal breakdown based on their situation…

When you’re accustomed to catastrophe, you get pretty good at navigating catastrophe.

Aziraphale was a bit accustomed to catastrophe. Through it all, they had gained a sense of determination.

Anathema had said to them once, years ago, during a late-night, drunken, crying episode in her old apartment: “You can be not okay, and also be tough and strong and brave.”

Aziraphale and Anathema had been friends since their university theatre days. Had trained together as apprentices with Tadfield Shakespeare. And Anathema might have been flouncy and whimsical and all those wonderful things, but she was also not in the habit of bullshitting people.

Aziraphale was not okay. They were sad and worried and already anxious and angry and uncomfortable and confused and _sad._

But they were also tough and strong and brave.

They sipped their Earl Grey, thoughtfully, grateful to have something to focus on besides crushing defeat and the thought of running their fingers through Anthony J. Crowley’s hair.

Hours later, they emerged from their room in something like triumph.

“Anathema,” they declared, cracking their tired fingers. “We’ve got an e-mail to draft.”

***

Aziraphale was honestly surprised when Crowley showed up to that first Google Hangout rehearsal. As face after face popped up on their laptop screen, Aziraphale wondered if the whole thing wasn’t too much _trouble_ for someone like Crowley. Surely, Crowley had better things to do during the possible-apocalypse than read _Shakespeare over the Internet._

But there they were, (a few minutes late, it should be noted), glasses on, but holding their script in their hands like everyone else.

And they rehearsed. It was awkward at first, as everyone got used to the new technology, and sometimes someone’s WiFi gave up, and they got kicked out of rehearsal, and sometimes someone forgot to unmute their microphone, and they had to go back and get a chunk of text a second time…

But they _rehearsed._

By the end of the evening, even Anthony J. Crowley was smiling in earnest.

People began cheerfully logging off, remarking on how lovely it had been to see everyone, and how nice it felt to still be working on something creative, and faces began to disappear one by one from the screen.

But Aziraphale didn’t want to leave.

This was normally where they’d be lingering over their bag, their script, their water… taking their time to see if anyone else maybe wanted to keep hanging out. If anyone wanted to be friends not just in the rehearsal space, but perhaps out in the real world as well.

Except there was no real world anymore. 

Just wobbly faces on their laptop screen.

Aziraphale sighed out loud.

“Something on your mind, angel?”

Aziraphale nearly jumped out of their chair.

“Oh,” they hoped that their blush didn’t read on the screen. There was only one little person box remaining, and this one now took up nearly their entire screen. Fire red hair and dark sunglasses, naturally. “I didn’t realize anyone else was still here.”

“Nowhere else to go, is there?” drawled Anthony J. Crowley.

“No,” Aziraphale admitted. “No, I suppose not.”

“I could get used to this, I think,” Crowley went on, leaning a little closer to their computer, threading their long fingers together, and leaning their chin on them.

“Really?” Aziraphale frowned. Because oh, they had hated this. Not being able to make real eye contact with their scene partners was so frustrating. Not being able to look Crowley directly in her golden eyes, and speak poetry into them…

You know what, maybe this was fine, actually.

“Sure,” Crowley smirked a little. “It’s fun not to have to wear pants to rehearsal.”

Aziraphale sputtered a little at that, flustered, embarrassed. “Oh, surely not.”

“Don’t believe me, angel?” Crowley teased. “What makes you think I would lie to you?”

_You’re… cool. It’s what you do._

As Aziraphale worked to come up with a clever reply, and also worked very hard to not imagine Crowley without pants on, Crowley suddenly asked:

“Do you have anything to drink?”

“Me?”

“Aziraphale, who else, in Satan’s name, would I possibly be talking to?”

“Well, if you must know, I have a rather nice bottle of wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

“Well, go get it, then.”

Aziraphale felt their cheeks color even more: Was this a special occasion?

“What about…” Aziraphale flailed about for an excuse. “Well, what about opening night?”

“Angel,” and there was a softness now in Crowley’s tone. “There might not be an opening night. Go get your wine.”

Aziraphale hesitated.

“Go on, then. ‘M not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale swallowed, perhaps a bit too hard, and got up from their desk. 

_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_ screeched a Voice in their head. _Drinking with the enemy?!_

_Oh, stop that._ Aziraphale protested, meekly. _Crowley is our fellow cast mate, not the enemy. What could one drink hurt? We’re bonding!_

_“Bonding?” Over what, over the fact that you’ve wanked to the thought of their perfect face every night for the past-_

“STOP IT,” Aziraphale said out loud, perhaps a bit too forcefully. 

“Aziraphale, who are you talking to?”

They had made it as far as the living room, and there was Anathema on the couch, script fanned out in front of her on the coffee table, making copious notes. Her glasses were on, and she was looking at them with some concern in her eyes.

“N-no one, my dear,” Aziraphale muttered. 

This happened from time to time, though, admittedly, it had been a minute. When Aziraphale’s anxiety threatened to get the better of them, they couldn’t always keep their thoughts locked up in their own head. 

_Do you not know that I am a.... They/Them? When I think, I must speak._

“Aziraphale, are you alright?”

There was sadness in Anathema’s voice, Aziraphale clocked. They realized with a lurch in their stomach that they had perhaps been rather unkind to Anathema since the cast list had gone up. They had kept their distance from her at home, they had really only spoken to her in very matter-of-fact terms about how to keep the play moving forward…

They hadn’t done a good job of treating her like a friend.

“I’m quite alright,” Aziraphale forced a smile. They didn’t want to worry Anathema (any more than they already had) over their anxiety. She had enough on her plate, after all. “Just going to get a… a celebratory first rehearsal drink, I suppose.”

Anathema perked up. “Well, let me join you!”

“Oh, I don’t want to distract you,” Aziraphale lied, hating themself. They knew they had been a poor friend, but they also knew in their guts that they were about to be a poor friend for at least one night longer.

For at least as long as it took to deduce why on Earth Anthony J. Crowley wanted to drink with them over a Google Hangout.

“I could use the break,” Anathema insisted, beginning to shuffle her papers into one messy pile.

“I’d actually like to be alone,” Aziraphale lied again. “If… if that’s alright.”

It wasn’t alright, and they both knew it. 

“Okay,” Anathema said, finally, a little flatly, collecting her pile of papers, and clutching them to her chest. 

“Anathema-”

“It’s just you and me in this house, Aziraphale,” Anathema said, a little anger finally seeping into her tone. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t give you what you wanted, but this is going to be a really long quarantine if you’re going to spend the whole thing avoiding me.”

And then:

“You’re my best friend,” she murmured. “I love you. I am sorry.”

And then she flitted off to her bedroom, slamming the door just enough behind her.

_Are you happy with yourself?_ came the snotty little Voice. 

“Rarely ever,” Aziraphale said, with as much “Fuck you”-primness as they dared muster. 

Their heart no longer really in it, they allowed their feet to carry them into the kitchen, allowed their hands to fumble for the nice bottle of red wine that they’d gone out and purchased the day after they had concocted their plan with Anathema, allowed their feet to carry them all the way back to their bedroom, where they sat back down at the computer, half-expecting Crowley to be long gone.

But there they were. Sipping idly from what appeared to be a glass of whiskey.

“Welcome back,” Crowley greeted. “Get lost on the way?”

Aziraphale shrugged, their… _breathe_ … fight with Anathema having left them more than a little speechless. Crowley leaned forward again, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

Fuck. Crowley couldn’t see them like this.

_Get it together, Aziraphale._

Aziraphale forced a smile and retrieved a corkscrew from their desk drawer. (This was not their first late night desk drink, you must understand.) 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale insisted. “Everything’s perfect. Marvelous. Absolutely tickety boo.”

“‘Tickety boo?’” repeated Crowley with something like horror in their voice.

Aziraphale lifted their bottle back in toast, feeling suddenly horribly sad and worried. Crowley lifted their glass in response.

“To the fucking world, angel.”

“To the world.”

***

They talked for hours. Aziraphale was astonished at how easy it was. Crowley spoke to them as if they had known each other for years and years, and perhaps they had, but they were… they were rivals. They were enemies, weren’t they?

Maybe only Aziraphale had ever felt that?

Fuck. 

“My point is,” Crowley struggled for words, making their way through yet another rather-full glass of whiskey. “My point is _dolphins-_ ”

“Why are you talking to me?” Aziraphale asked, abruptly. It was killing them. What was _happening?_

Crowley stopped, looking finally a little silly, Aziraphale noted with some relief, with her mouth hanging open. She clicked it shut, and thought about the answer.

“I’m Rosalind, and you’re Orlando,” she said, simply. “We’re in this together, aren’t we?”

“But I don’t even like you,” Aziraphale admitted, drunk and bold.

“Well…” Crowley didn’t seem remotely offended, as if people said this to them all the time. “Well, game on, then, angel.”

Aziraphale had not taken Anthony J. Crowley as the type to try. But there they were, showing up for virtual rehearsals, and attempting to be friendly with them.

_They’re being professional, idiot._ Sneered the Voice. _Don’t get excited._

Crowley yawned, and surveyed her empty glass of whiskey. “Well, I think that’s all the co-star bonding I’ve got in me tonight, angel. See you at the next one?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Great. Get more wine. Ciao.”

And she was gone before Aziraphale could say “good night.”

Aziraphale sat at their desk chair, feeling rather breathless, staring now only at their own reflection on the screen. They stood up from their desk, stumbling a little. They regarded the completely empty wine bottle sitting on their desk. 

“Oh, dear,” they slurred. 

They groaned, and buried their face in their hands. 

“She doesn’t like you like that,” Aziraphale said out loud, tongue thick in their mouth. “She probably doesn’t like you at all. Just bored. Don’t be stupid.”

Aziraphale was generally regarded as a terribly clever person. I mean, they are the one who figured out how to keep rehearsals afloat during this mess, hadn’t they? They were clever and reasonable and responsible.

But they were also drunk and confused and the world was probably ending, so I hope you will forgive them for retrieving their now-trusty vibrator from their bedside table drawer and once again bringing themself off to the thought of Anthony J. Crowley. 

***

(I wish I could tell you how long this next part lasted. I’m so sorry.)

_And I think it’s gonna be a long, long time  
'Till touch down brings me round again to find_

The cast continued to meet via Google Hangout. They continued to speak text out loud, and Anathema offered direction, and, sometimes, blessedly, they were all able to laugh together and feel something like comfort and happiness together.

And, during the day, Aziraphale pored over their lines, and went on long walks with Anathema, making an effort to be a better friend than they’d been since this had all started, and they grimaced and learned about unemployment and how that all worked. They opened their bedroom windows, and fought to keep their anxiety at bay long enough to focus on a good book.

At night, after rehearsal…

They drank whatever they could get their hands on, and they talked to Crowley.

Aziraphale learned that, in their youth, Crowley had been part of an underground, experimental theatre troupe called the Hellfire Collective.

“We thought we were such hot shit, literally,” Crowley groaned. “Bunch of idiots.”

Aziraphale smiled at that story, and launched into their own frustrations with Tadfield Shakespeare. Crowley nodded and listened and sipped their whiskey, and one night:

“I saw your Beatrice. You were great.”

Oh, is there any surer way to an actor’s heart?

Sometimes there would be a moment wherein someone’s computer would act up, and Crowley would freeze momentarily on the screen. And, though Aziraphale missed their company more than they cared to admit, they squirrelled away the moments wherein they could simply admire Crowley’s face, wherein they didn’t have the fight the longing in their eyes. 

Aziraphale had expected Anthony J. Crowley to be a lot of things: flashy, impossibly cool, distant, snarky… and she was all of those things.

They were learning, however, that she was also kind and thoughtful and a good listener and took care of plants, apparently?! And baked?!

“I live alone, angel,” Crowley explained one night. “And plants aren’t wankers the way people are.”

“But you,” Aziraphale pointed a finger at their monitor in disbelief. “The acclaimed stage star Anthony J. Crowley _bake?_ ”

“Shut up,” but Crowley grinned. “You mean the acclaimed stage star _and_ acclaimed baker Anthony J. Crowley. You wait, angel. When this is all over, I’m going to knock your socks off.”

_When this is all over_ hung there in the air, as it always did when it came up. Because there were two main questions to consider: _When_ would this all be over? And also:

What was changing between them? 

“I like lemon-y things,” Aziraphale offered, trying not to picture Anthony J. Crowley in a bright, sunny kitchen on a lovely Sunday morning when the world was back to normal…

They started talking every night, whether there was rehearsal or not. 

And, then, one day…

(I don’t know what it’s going to look like anymore than you do. I so wish I did.)

But one day, they finally had their first rehearsal in person again. And it was magnificent. Anathema cried while addressing the cast during their check-in, and even Crowley, generally refusing to outwardly demonstrate any emotion beyond sarcasm, betrayed themself by showing up with a container full of homemade biscuits for the entire assembly.

Iced, lemon biscuits. 

And Aziraphale and Crowley regarded one another across the check-in circle, and, yes, something had shifted between them.

And then they were on their feet, and they were speaking text, not miles apart on separate computer screens, but together and in person and alive and real, and Aziraphale’s heart was beating furiously in their chest at this impossibly closeness to Crowley. 

“ _Gentleman,_ ” Crowley-as-Rosalind smiled at them so adoringly as they worked their way through Act I. They lifted an imaginary chain from their long, pale neck. “ _Wear this for me…_ ”

And Aziraphale did not hear the rest of the line, as focused as they were on the lingering feel of Crowley’s fingers on their own neck as they mimicked placing the chain on them instead.

(Everyone else in the room just thought that they were remarkably in character. Thank goodness for poor Orlando.)

When rehearsal ended, Aziraphale lingered over their bag, their script, their water. They turned to look for Anathema. She was laughing with Newt, the sweet, bespectacled fellow playing Oliver. On nights when they’d been awake talking to Crowley, and had nipped across the house to retrieve more wine from the kitchen, they thought they’d heard Newt’s voice coming across Anathema’s own computer speakers. 

Aziraphale smiled. _Good for you, friend._

An arm suddenly looped through theirs. They were quite lucky that they were already smiling, so that they did not give themself away too entirely just yet.

“Where to, angel?” Crowley drawled. “The world is finally our oyster.”

Aziraphale didn’t know yet how to effectively describe what Anthony J. Crowley smelled like, but oh, they were determined to learn. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale confessed, a little overwhelmed by their newfound freedom. 

“Lift home?” Crowley suggested, casually.

Aziraphale’s mouth went dry. It had been quite one thing to talk into the late hours of the night, drunken and laughing and telling truths, when there was a safe bit of distance between them. Aziraphale tried to picture slinky, sexy Anthony J. Crowley perched on the corner of their tartan comforter, drinking wine out of a glass that had once touched their own lips, and-

_Be brave._ Whispered a different Voice. A kind, soft voice that knew that Aziraphale deserved to be happy.

Aziraphale nodded, and followed Crowley out the door. 

_(and let me all your fortunes understand)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, friends. This is not where this chapter was originally headed at all. We'll be back on our feet and speaking Shakespeare in no time (specifically, in the next chapter), I promise. 
> 
> Coming up next time: We round out our cast a little more, get some more backstory, and Aziraphale ends up having more in common with Orlando than they expected. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. love is merely a madness, or: saturday night's alright (for fighting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley continue to work on their lines and get to know one another, and Aziraphale gets into a rather uncharacteristic altercation.
> 
> CW: Sexual harassment (verbal), misgendering

_(not see him since? sir, sir, that cannot be:)_

They didn’t kiss then, that first night together in Aziraphale’s room.

They didn’t even kiss the next night, or the night after that. They didn’t even kiss when they met up together in the park on their Monday off to run lines together.

_(I’m getting ahead of us. I apologize.)_

On their first Monday morning off from rehearsal now that the world was back together again, as much as it ever was, Aziraphale was brushing their teeth, getting ready for their shift at the book shop. They weren’t especially looking forward to it, to tell you the truth. It was nice to be surrounded by books, of course, but their manager Gabriel was kind of a lot, and there were always so many _customers…_

Not for the first time, Aziraphale closed their eyes and allowed themself the fantasy of owning their own shop. Maybe they could have a little stage in the basement, and Ineffable Shakespeare would have a full-time home. 

Maybe Crowley would come over all the time, and they would get drunk together in some back room of the shop, and maybe Aziraphale would finally muster all their courage and grab Crowley by their lovely, narrow face and pull them in for a kiss, would pull them tight against their own body, would lay them down so gently on the sofa, would-

Aziraphale very nearly choked on their toothpaste.

Their phone rang.

With great curiosity, Aziraphale rinsed their mouth quickly, and walked back into their bedroom, where their phone was on their desk. They didn’t get many phone calls at 8 am on a Monday morning, after all.

“Hello?”

“What are you doing today, angel?”

“I’m going to work, you know that. How did you get my number?”

“Cast contact sheet.”

“Oh. Well, how resourceful of you.”

“Blow it off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Work! Blow it off, and come run lines in the park with me. We can feed the ducks and everything. You’ll like it.”

“Crowley, I can’t call out of work. It’s against the rules!”

But, even as they protested, Aziraphale knew that they were going to end up in that park. They blushed a brilliant crimson at the prospect. They had never called out of work. Not once. 

But to have more time with Crowley, well.

“Ahhhh, come on, angel. Rules are a construct!”

“I can’t! I simply can’t.”

“Aziraphale, think of The Theatre. We have a duty as artists to give the greatest performance of our lives, and how can we do that if we’re not working on our text every day?”

“A very powerful argument. To think, if you rehearsed for the play as much as you must have rehearsed that little speech.”

Crowley laughed into the phone. “I like a little bite on you, angel. So, see you at the park in half an hour?”

“What? No! I already told you-”

But they were talking to no one. Crowley was gone. Heavens, she was frustrating. Haughty and always teasing and quick-witted and, well, always so _present,_ at least on stage, at least in her conversations with Aziraphale…

Aziraphale shook a little as they called up the book shop.

“Yes, hello, Gabriel? It’s Aziraphale. I’m so sorry, but I’m feeling terribly ill today, and…”

***

It really was a lovely day to skip work and go to the park.

They found a nice tree to sit beside, and Crowley had two surprises in store. From her bag, she produced a little container of homemade apple turnovers (Aziraphale nearly swooned), and, of course, an engraved silver flask.

“It is not even 9 in the morning,” Aziraphale admonished before taking a swig from the flask. 

“That’s my whole point!” Crowley leaned back against the tree, stretching her long limbs out before her. Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to sit between Crowley’s legs, their back to her chest, Crowley’s arms wound tight around her.

_Focus._

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale took another sip from the flask. They needed to loosen up. “What exactly is your point?”

“That your day is going to be much better spent day drinking and reading Shakespeare with me than it ever would have been in that dreary bookshop,” Crowley explained. “Besides I bet you’ve never done anything wrong before. Your boss probably adores you.”

Aziraphale frowned. 

“I’m quite sure that he tolerates me, perhaps because no one else is really lining up to get a job at an old bookshop,” they answered, as truthfully as possible.

“Oh, come on,” Crowley was not prepared to let it go. “I’m sure you’re a model employee.”

Aziraphale blushed a little. People did usually assume that about them, after all, but, well, the truth was: “Sometimes I get caught up in a good book, and I forget to… well, to actually do my job.”

Crowley laughed. “I can picture it now. Some poor customer standing alone, ready to check out, and you’re in the back, swooning over some bloody _Pride & Prejudice._”

“ _Persuasion,_ actually,” Aziraphale sniffed.

“Well, of course. My mistake.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath of the fresh spring air. “I hate to admit it, but you were right. This is much nicer than being at work.”

“I’m a damn genius, angel.”

“Our shop caters to a rather more… old-fashioned clientele-”

“The shop where you work, you mean? Colour me shocked.”

Aziraphale ignored her, and went on: “I’ve been at the shop for a number of years, you know, and some of our customers haven’t… well, they haven’t really gotten used to my pronouns yet. It can be awfully frustrating.”

Crowley’s playful expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. That does sound frustrating.”

“I feel too embarrassed to correct everyone all of the time,” Aziraphale admitted, now twiddling a blade of grass between their fingers. “Sometimes I still worry that I’m making all of this up, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

Aziraphale gestured to themself. “There’s this… there’s this voice in my head, I suppose. This voice that says, ‘Oh, you’re just a straight, cis girl who wants attention.’ It makes me quite sad.”

As if on cue, The Voice sneered, _Way to kill the fun mood, you idiot._

But it felt important to tell Crowley something real. Aziraphale didn’t have many friends outside of Anathema. Whatever was happening with Crowley felt like something special and important, and they wanted her to know things. To know things about them besides the facts that they were a fussy bookseller who longed to perform Shakespeare.

“Send that dick-voice to me next time,” Crowley sat up a little straighter against the tree. She removed her glasses, and set them down on the grass beside her. Aziraphale dared to glance at her, and they could see the seriousness in her eyes. “I’d be happy to send them packing.”

“I don’t think it quite works like that, but thank you,” Aziraphale smiled. 

“You came out pretty recently, didn’t you?” Crowley asked. “Last time I saw you at a show… everything was different, wasn’t it?”

It had been.

“Whatever happened to,” It was Crowley now who had found some grass with which to fumble. “I’m sorry, I forgot his name.”

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, quickly. They wanted Crowley to know about them, but this was not a road they were particularly eager to go down. This road hurt. “I… I ended things once I realized what I really want.”

“And what do you want?” Crowley’s golden eyes stayed steady on the green blade between her fingers.

_You. I think._

Aziraphale laid back against the grass, letting it tickle the back of their neck. They looked up at the beautiful tree before them, and farther beyond to the vast, blue sky. “Sometimes I still feel like a terrible fraud, but, on my good days, I know who I am. I’m queer, and I’m going to be alright.”

_Part of why I’m so certain is the fact that I masturbate to the thought of you, my darling, most nights before I fall asleep, but no sense getting into that, is there?_

“You’re going to be better than alright, Aziraphale,” Crowley said, again with a seriousness that Aziraphale seldom heard in her voice.

They also seldom heard “Aziraphale” in Crowley’s voice. It was usually “angel,” which, of course, Azirpahale adored, but it meant that something had become more… intimate about hearing their name in Crowley’s voice.

“We’re going to be brilliant in the show,” Crowley went on. “And then everyone in town is going to know our names, and you’ll be able to go and audition wherever you like, and you’ll never have to deal with those bookshop morons ever again.”

“I thought everyone in town already knew your name.”

“Well, they do, but you know what I mean.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, I do hope we’re brilliant in the show.”

“Of course we will be! We were incredible in that audition, angel.”

“Well, I suppose we were. Here we are, aren’t we?”

“ _Do you hear forester?_ ” Crowley began.

Aziraphale smiled, unable to recall a time before when breaking the rules had felt so wonderful.

“ _Very well: what would you?_ ”

***

They next touched on that scene at Saturday night’s rehearsal, and it was marvelous. Their text _crackled._ The rest of the cast off on the sidelines, normally absorbed in their own scripts or in their phones, all looked up to watch, and a few of them even applauded when the scene concluded.

They didn’t let go of one another’s hands until Anathema started giving notes, and Aziraphale, unable to stop themself, squeezed Crowley’s. 

Rehearsal ended, and Aziraphale hovered near Crowley, hopefully. Surely tonight was to be another drunken night in one another’s company, after all. That’s just what they did now. Tragically, their hopes were dashed when Crowley turned to them and said:

“Sorry, angel. Got some stuff to do tonight. See you at rehearsal tomorrow?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale tried and utterly failed to hide the disappointment in their face. “Oh, well, of course. It’s actually rather convenient for me. You see, I also have… stuff.”

Crowley spread her long arms wide, and cocked her head to the side. “Can I hug you?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale stepped into Crowley’s arms, allowing themself to be immediately crushed in a truly magnificent hug. For a moment, Aziraphale couldn’t decide what to do with their own arms, so they just allowed themself to be held by Crowley. Allowed themself to enjoy the sensation of Crowley’s hair, falling over her shoulder, ticking their noise. 

“Good work tonight, angel,” murmured Crowley against Azirphale’s ear.

“And you,” Aziraphale likewise murmured into Crowley’s shoulder.

And then Crowley let go, holding Aziraphale for just a moment longer by the shoulders, and giving them a truly glorious grin.

And then she walked out the door, and into the night. Probably off to some grand Saturday Night Adventure. Aziraphale slung their bag over their shoulder, and smiled about their own plans. 

A nice cup of tea and a book. Their standard Saturday evening appointment.

Aziraphale walked away from rehearsal, feeling…

_Happy._

Rehearsals were actually going well. It really was going to be a wonderful show, and they were going to be brilliant in it. And Crowley was their friend, against all odds. Cool, fabulous Anthony J. Crowley was their _friend._ It had all happened so suddenly. Aziraphale remembered being so angry at Crowley during auditions, and shame welled up in them over having ever felt such a way at someone to whom they’d become so close. 

Something else tugged at their guts over thinking about Crowley. A startling realization that continued to bloom more and more with each passing rehearsal, with each passing night in one another’s company.

_There’s a way she looks at you._

And there was, Aziraphale was clever enough not to deny it. 

_So, why not turn around and chase after her and grab her and kiss her?_

Aziraphale had worked very hard to shove it away, to not let it bubble to the surface, but the truth is simply that the past few months of Aziraphale’s life had hurt so much. The unspoken dismissal from Tadfield Shakespeare, the end of their previous relationship over their freshly recognized queerness, the constant misgendering at the bookshop, feeling poor in comparison to Anathema, not getting the part they so desperately wanted…

They couldn’t handle anymore pain. Couldn’t handle anymore rejection. Anthony J. Crowley would eventually become bored by them, surely. And Aziraphale cared about it all, cared about her too much, to open themself up to that kind of hurt.

“Oy, sweetheart!”

Aziraphale’s sad contemplation was broken by the horrid caterwauling of a random man across the street from them. Aziraphale’s insides burned immediately. 

_Oh, please go away._

They turned back around to face forward and kept walking. They didn’t say anything. Their eyes darted back and forth, just to confirm that there was no one else around. 

They were alone. 

“Hey, pretty girl!”

_Not a girl._

“Hey! Hey, Blondie! I’m talking to you!”

_Just keep your eyes ahead. Don’t engage, don’t-_

“I’m just trying to pay you a compliment, bitch.”

Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath, willing themself to remain calm. What did the words of an idiot matter, anyway? 

“Whatever. Your pussy’s not that good.”

And Aziraphale abruptly turned on their heel, and marched promptly across the street. The man looked them up and down, leering appreciatively.

“Well, that’s more like it, darling.”

“Apologize, please,” Aziraphale said, willing to keep the wobble out of their voice. Their insides were blazing. This… well, this was not something they did.

The man blinked for a minute, clearly not expecting that response, and then cackled out loud. “Fuck off, bitch. Fuck, you’re even uglier up close.”

“Well, that very well may be,” Aziraphale responded, primly. “But I do believe you still owe me an apology.” 

The man stepped in closer. He was about a head taller than Aziraphale. “What are you going to do about it, little girl?”

_Not a girl._ Aziraphale thought, furiously. They breathed deep, willing themself to be brave.

“ _An you mean to mock me after,_ ” Aziraphale quoted, always feel more confident in Shakespeare’s voice than in their own.

“What?”

“ _You should not have mocked me before._ ”

The man spit at Aziraphale.

A police officer rounded the corner just in time to watch Aziraphale haul off and punch him in his fucking face.

_Oh, don’t give us none of your aggravation_

***

Aziraphale… actually felt a little proud of themself. They didn’t generally condone violence, yes, but that man had been dreadfully out of line. They sat there on a bench in the jail cell, humming a little to themself. They’d always imagined that they’d be crying if they got in trouble with the law, but… well, they were actually rather reveling a little in their burst of rebelliousness. 

They wished that Crowley had seen them.

A smile crept across Aziraphale’s face at how proud Crowley would be of them when she heard what had happened when-

“What the deuce are you doing locked up?”

Aziraphale turned their head sharply to look outside of the cell. It couldn’t be.

“Crowley!”

They instantly blushed at the evident joy in their voice. _You obvious idiot._

Because there she was, in all her glory, leaning against the bars just outside the cell, looking impossibly amused.

“To think,” Crowley drawled, clucking her tongue. “Poor, unsuspecting me. Caught up in the company of a common criminal.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale wondered out loud. They had called Anathema to come and get them, after all.

“Madame Director’s on a date, _if you must know,_ ” Crowley’s Aziraphale-impression really was getting good. “So, she asked me to come and rescue you.”

“Well, thank you,” Aziraphale said. “For the rescue.”

“Don’t say that,” Crowley pointed an accusing finger through the bars. “They’ll think I’ve gone soft, out here doing favors on a Saturday night.”

“And who exactly are ‘they?’”

Crowley grinned. “My adoring public, of course.”

Aziraphale knew that she was teasing, but damn, it did sort of prove their point. There’s no way that it was a good thing for Anthony J. Crowley’s fiendishly cool reputation to be constantly seen out with soft, dorky Aziraphale. 

When they finally walked together out of the station, Crowley stretched her arms out, and breathed deeply of the night air.

“Well, it looks like fate wanted us to be together tonight after all, angel.”

Oh, Aziraphale liked that notion very much.

“Is there anything I can do to thank you for bailing me out?” They asked, and the words came out more hopefully than they’d intended.

Crowley slung an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, playfully. Aziraphale tried desperately not to read too much into it:

“I’m open to suggestions, angel.”

Aziraphale thought hard. It had been quite the night, after all. They’d punched an utter ruffian in the face, they’d sat in a jail cell, and then their impossibly gorgeous crush had showed up to bail them out. 

There was really only one possible thing for which this situation called.

Aziraphale, quite daringly, slid their own arm over Crowley’s shoulders. She was taller, so it was a bit awkward, but they were quite determined.

“What would you say… to some crepes?”

***

They were delightful crepes.

Crowley didn’t eat, just drank coffee (“It’s nearly midnight!” Aziraphale protested. “Standard bedtimes are for suckers, angel,” Crowley answered. "I'll nap before rehearsal tomorrow!"), and watched Aziraphale, leaning forward a little.

She was quieter than usual, Aziraphale noted with some concern. 

_Well, she originally had more interesting things to do than hang out with you again, didn’t she?_

Aziraphale swallowed another mouthful of lemon curd and cream, willing their inner voice to let up, if only for a moment.

“Something on your mind, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked.

“Hmm?” Crowley nearly knocked their cup over, evidently snapping out of some reverie. 

“I asked if there was anything on your mind,” Aziraphale repeated, beginning to feel worried.

“S nothing, angel,” Crowley insisted, taking a napkin to wipe up the splashes of coffee that had ended up on the table. “Shall we get you home? I’m on foot tonight. Hope that’s okay.”

“More than,” Aziraphale promised.

They left the little crepe shop (Crowley paid despite Aziraphale’s myriad protests), and walked back out into the night. Crowley remained quieter than Aziraphale could ever recall having witnessed her before. Aziraphale worked to quell their own nervous desire to chatter to fill the silence, but maybe…

Maybe this was alright. Maybe this was even good. They knew how to swap words together like the best of them. Shakespeare’s words as well as their own. Maybe it was worth discovering what this friendship was like in silence.

So, Aziraphale didn’t say anything either, and they just walked.

When they reached Aziraphale and Anathema’s front door, they turned to face one another. Crowley opened their mouth, and then snapped it shut almost immediately. Aziraphale smiled at the action, being reminded of one their favorite lines from another play:

“ _She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?_ ”

Crowley made a face at the recitation. Aziraphale frowned.

“Something the matter with _Romeo & Juliet?_”

“I prefer the funny ones.”

Aziraphaler rolled their eyes a little. “Don’t be a snob. There’s plenty of comedy in _Romeo-_ ”

“Can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale abruptly forgot every brilliant point they had ever made about _Romeo & Juliet._

Crowley leaned forward a little, and Aziraphale panicked, every cell in their body screaming at their stupid anxious brain. They stepped back and away from Crowley, turning their head down to look at their hands instead. 

“Terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, voice barely a whisper, hating themself thoroughly. “It’s just… well, it’s a bit fast for me, I think.”

And the briefest moment of surprise and sadness and something else that Aziraphale couldn’t place flashed across Crowley’s face before she was smiling a wicked, confident smile again. “Alright, angel. Loud and clear.”

Crowley turned to go, and this made Aziraphale panic even harder:

“I don’t know!” Aziraphale confessed, probably too loudly. “Maybe one day we could…” _What the fuck was a good, sexy date suggestion?_ “Go for a picnic?” _Oh, fuck me._

Crowley paused, and turned over her shoulder. Goodness, she was beautiful. Aziraphale wanted to take her somewhere nice, somewhere with champagne and pianos, and oh-

“Maybe dine at the Ritz?”

_WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?_

Crowley turned back around, and walked over to Aziraphale. She lifted one hand in the direction of Aziraphale’s face, and raised an eyebrow in question. _May I?_ Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley placed her hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, and Aziraphale sighed out loud. Her palm was so warm.

“Let me make something clear, angel,” Crowley said, stroking Aziraphale’s cheek with her thumb. “I auditioned for this play because I’ve thought you were cute for, roughly, _ever._ I can go slow, ‘s long as we’re going somewhere.”

“I think we are,” Aziraphale brought their own hand up to cover Crowley’s. “My dear.”

Crowley smirked. “And you thought you didn’t like me.”

***

Crowley let the door swing shut behind her. She didn’t bother flicking any lights on as she wandered through her flat. She paused in the dark to scowl at her plants, making a mental note to give them a more thorough seeing-to in the morning. 

She made her way into her bedroom, and sat down at the edge of her bed. She felt… Fuck. What was this?

“What the fuck are you doing, idiot?” she finally said out loud to the empty room. 

She didn’t really know. There was only so much further that cockiness and swagger were going to get her with Aziraphale. Sooner or later her true colors were going to come out, and what was the plan then? Be vulnerable? Fuck. 

_My dear._

Aziraphale had called her “my dear.” Crowley blushed a little at the memory.

“Knock that off,” she growled to herself.

She hadn’t lied, by the way. She’d actually been thinking of taking a break from performing before she'd seen the notice for _As You Like It._ Her image within their insular little theatre world, so carefully cultivated, had become a little exhausting to maintain. She was tired of performing, and she was tired of Performing. Fuck, even avoiding Aziraphale earlier tonight had been part of the Act. Part of Playing It Cool. 

But dammit all, she’d _always_ wanted an excuse to get closer to Aziraphale. 

Crowley thought back to times she’d seen Aziraphale onstage. They were so natural, so comfortable. It was part of what made real-life Aziraphale so fucking adorable. All their fluster and nervousness… nowhere to be seen when they were speaking Shakespeare. There was just this incredible determination. Those blue-grey eyes became so set and so focused, and Crowley closed her own eyes and remembered what it was like to have that gaze turned on her during rehearsals…

_You baked them biscuits._ A matter-of-fact voice in her head reminded her. _You BAILED THEM OUT OF JAIL, AND THEN YOU TRIED TO KISS THEM._

_THEY KNOW._

Crowley groaned.

She thought again of Aziraphale’s gaze meeting her own. Blue fading into gold, like the ocean against the sunrise.

_Oh, fuck me._

Crowley slid her way back against her sheets until she was resting against her pillows. (Her sheets were indeed black silk.) She reached into her own bedside drawer…

And pulled out the program from the first time she’d seen Aziraphale in a play. The old, worn, folded program opened right to the page with Aziraphale’s headshot and bio on it. They’d had longer hair then, long, blonde curls that flowed over their shoulders. But the eyes were the same. Serious, focused, warm. 

_Aziraphale Fell would like to thank…_

Not for the first time in her secretly quite-soft inner-life, Crowley imagined their program for _As You Like It._ Imagined the words: _Aziraphale Fell would like to thank blah blah fucking blah…_

_Love to Anthony J. Crowley._

Crowley couldn’t tell you exactly when it had changed from “I want to make out with them” to “I want to rest my hand on the small of their back at the opening night party,” but there she was. 

_My dear._

Crowley narrowed her eyes a little as she schemed. She wanted to give Aziraphale something. Something grander even than iced, lemon biscuits. Not as a ploy to get Aziraphale to kiss her or anything like that. Just to see the delighted expression on their face.

That was enough.

“ _What a piece of work is man,_ ” Crowley murmured to herself. 

Ah ha.

_(go with me, silvius)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Honestly, I've never really attempted a story of this kind of scope before, and it's not always going the way I expected, but I am so grateful for the opportunity and grateful that you stopped by to check it out!
> 
> You're doing great.
> 
> (There's going to be more actual Shakespeare in the next chapter, I PROMISE. Needed to have some conversations first, though!)


	4. i would kiss before i spoke, or: your song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She caught sight of Aziraphale, and stopped. She looked a little stunned. Her golden eyes, normally crinkled in a joke or a tease, were wider than Aziraphale could ever recall having seen them before. She started moving towards Aziraphale, and they realized that they were moving in her direction as well, and then they were facing one another._
> 
> _“Wow,” Crowley finally said, appreciatively. “Shakespeare looks good on you, angel.”_
> 
> _“And you,” Aziraphale breathed, failing to keep the wonder out of their voice. “You look absolutely stunning.”_
> 
> _“Well, I’m not finished yet,” Crowley found her smirk again. “Lace me up?”_
> 
> In which we get closer and closer to tech week, and Crowley and Aziraphale go off site for some inspiration.

_(i prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee)_

Anthony J. Crowley was so fucking proud of herself. She had a plan, and it was an excellent one, thanks very much. She was about to prove herself an actual fucking hero to a certain lovely angel. 

Hell, she was so excited and pleased with herself that she found herself pulling up to rehearsal about a half an hour before her actual call time, which was unprecedented. 

It was a Tuesday afternoon, and she hadn’t seen Aziraphale for two days. Not since their almost-kiss. Crowley felt an unpleasant tingle in her guts over the memory, but tried to shake it off:

_They like you, idiot. They’re just taking it slow._

Crowley didn’t like to take things slow, didn’t like to wait. It was just… how can you possibly guarantee that the good thing will still be there? Crowley often felt a little like what she’d heard about sharks; she had to keep moving to survive. 

Well, maybe they weren’t kissing and confessing their feelings yet, but that didn’t mean that Crowley was going to take it easy on them. As she parked, she took a moment to check herself out in the Bentley’s mirror. She grinned at herself, dark sunglasses and crimson lipstick looking back at her. Lipstick that expertly matched her hair.

Her freshly short, partially faded, sticking up just a little in the front hair.

I mean, she’d had to get it cut for the show, after all. She was supposed to be disguised as a boy wandering the forest! And if the new look got a response out of a certain handsome co-star, well, so be it.

Crowley dragged her fingers through her hair. She liked the edge of androgyny it afforded her. She smiled at the thought, thinking again of Aziraphale.

Because that’s part of what she liked about being around them. She didn’t feel the need to be any particular way, to fit into any particular box or assignment. She just felt like Crowley. Crowley and Aziraphale. They were beings, two pieces that just fit together, and the rest of it didn’t matter. 

Crowley groaned at the sugary-sweetness of the thought. _Don’t go around using “and” yet. Don’t set yourself up for a fall, Crowley._

Crowley tried to set her mind back on the immediate facts, not dwell on some unlikely future. And, in the immediate present, with her sexy haircut and her thoughtful surprise, she was about to sweep Aziraphale off their goddamn feet.

She practically kicked in the front door of the rehearsal space in her flee, expecting to find it empty, as she was early, but oh:

Oh, fuck.

Four heads whipped around to look at her. Anathema, of course. There was the fight choreographer, Shadwell. (Odd bloke.) The actor playing Charles the Wrestler… What was his name? Something with an “S?”

And, then:

Crowley had perhaps never been so grateful for her glasses as she felt her eyes widen to what felt like the size of dinner plates.

She’d interrupted a combat rehearsal, she pieced together too late as she took in the sight before her. Aziraphale. Buttoned-up, soft, fluffy Aziraphale. 

Sweating. Curls sticking to their forehead. Panting a little from whatever moment in the fight Crowley had interrupted. 

_Wearing a fucking tank top._

There was definition in their arms that Crowley had never imagined lurked beneath all those long, crisp sleeves. The light streaming in through the rehearsal space windows glinted against the soft, golden hairs dusting Aziraphale’s forearms. Crowley had never truly had the opportunity to appreciate the curve of Aziraphale’s belly before…

Fuck. This was not how this was supposed to go.

“Hi, Crowley!” Anathema called. “You’re not called for another half hour, you know?”

“Of course I know,” Crowley heard themself say, eyes never leaving Aziraphale. “The thing is… You know, I was making sure that you knew.”

“What?” Anathema frowned, but it didn’t matter, because Aziraphale was definitely staring back at Crowley, blue eyes as wide as Crowley’s golden ones.

Staring and still fucking _panting._

“Well!” Crowley finally called out. “Everything seems to be in order here, so…” _What the fuck are you talking about?_ “I’ll just go, shall I?”

“We’ll see you at your call time, Crowley,” Anathema said, gently. “Maybe go drink some water or something?”

_Or a shot of whiskey._

“Ngk,” was all Crowley managed as they spun back around to make a hasty retreat. Before they could reach the doors, though, a soft voice called out to them:

“Your hair looks lovely.”

Crowley flicked up their fingers in some sort of response, unwilling to turn back around and let Aziraphale see just how fiercely they were blushing.

***

As soon as combat ended, with just five minutes to spare until the rest of rehearsal began, Aziraphale bust into the bathroom, breathing hard from the work of the fights as well as what was very likely a panic attack. They splashed water onto their face, willing the redness coloring their pale skin to settle down. Finally, they looked back at their own reflection, already cringing at what they knew they would see.

“Oh, no,” they groaned.

They were sweaty and sticky and they’d known this top was too tight when they’d picked it out this morning, but it was so comfortable to move in, but now Crowley had seen their stupid stomach, and she was probably disgusted, and-

“Mirror,” they whispered to themself. “Mirror. Soap. Door. Sink. Rude graffiti.”

_Five things you can see._

They turned the handle on the faucet of the sink.

“Water,” they let the water pour over their hands. They brought their cool fingers up to their face. “Skin.” They ran a finger over their gold ring. “Ring.” They settled both hands down on the counter top. “Counter?”

_Four things you can touch._

Aziraphale breathed, and tried to listen.

“Oh, water,” they realized, moving to turn off the faucet. “Voices outside. Footsteps.”

_Three things you can hear._

Aziraphale inhaled deeply.

“Sweat,” they wrinkled their nose a little bit. “Cleaner.”

_Two things you can smell._

They turned their attention to their tongue, which felt dry and heavy in their mouth. All they tasted was stale breath. 

Aziraphale shut their eyes, and allowed themself to imagine what Crowley tasted like. What they would have tasted like if Aziraphale had leaned into their kiss instead of pulling away.

“Fire,” Aziraphale sighed.

_One thing you can taste._

Aziraphale looked in the mirror again, saw the freshly-determined eyes. Their bag was on the counter, contained within it a fresh change of clothing. Aziraphale turned to the side, dared to consider their own profile, all of the curves and swells and softness that they usually attempted to hide. They took in the sight of this body that they usually fought so hard against.

This body that Anthony J. Crowley had tried to kiss.

What would it be like to try to love this body? This soft and handsome and good body that did not belong to a woman nor a man?

“I am ethereal fucking being,” Aziraphale declared to their reflection.

Feeling grounded and defiant, Aziraphale slung their bag over their shoulder, and walked back into rehearsal.

***

It was a… charged rehearsal. 

“ _Am not I your Rosalind?_ ” Crowley wanted to know, drawing herself up to her full height and looming over Aziraphale.

“ _I take some joy to say you are,_ ” Aziraphale said, playfully. “ _Because I would be talking of her._ ”

Crowley grinned at that. “ _Well in her person I say…_ ” She practically purred, bringing her arms around Aziraphale’s neck and leaning forward, suggestively. “ _I will not have you._ ” And she let go, and went to move away, but-

Aziraphale reached forward and grabbed her by the wrist. “ _Then in mine own person I die._ ”

And Crowley smiled at them, a little sadly, not pulling her hand back. “ _No, faith, die by attorney. The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicit, in a love-cause._ ”

_Almost six thousand years old,_ Aziraphale thought to themself. _And have I really only known you for a few weeks?_

Rehearsal ended, and Aziraphale went to collect their things, beginning to regret their choice to not change outfits. They were quite concerned that they rather smelled. Crowley sidled up to them. Aziraphale couldn’t get over her in her new haircut. She was… well, she was always beautiful. She was always sexy.

Maybe there just wasn’t a word for it.

“Hey, angel.”

“Hello,” Aziraphale responded.

“We’ve just got the costume parade on Saturday morning, right? And then the afternoon off?” Crowley asked.

“You’ve access to the same rehearsal schedule that I do, Crowley,” Aziraphale reminded them, perhaps a little too primly in their effort to appear professional. 

“Yes, I know that, Goody-Two-Shoes. Can you shove it for a second, and let me ask you out properly?”

Aziraphale promptly dropped their water bottle, and the lid popped off, splashing the both of them all over the ankles.

“Terribly sorry!” they squeaked, moving hastily to rescue the dropped bottle.

“No, it’s perfect,” Crowley teased. “It’s what every girl dreams of.”

Aziraphale popped back up, entirely unable to fight the embarrassed flush painting their cheeks. 

“Well, go on.”

“With that?”

“With ‘asking me out properly,’ of course!”

Aziraphale clapped a hand over their mouth in horror as the words escaped them, and:

“Unless you’ve changed your mind, of course. I would never mean to presume-”

Crowley held a finger up to their lips, and Aziraphale thought their knees might give way.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began again. “What are you doing on Saturday after rehearsal?”

“Nothing of great import,” Aziraphale admitted.

“Would you like to come and see _Hamlet_ at the Globe with me?”

Aziraphale’s jaw dropped, they couldn’t help it. They were a living, breathing Shakespearean actor, after all, and oh, how they’d always dreamed that someone wonderful would want to go and watch a play at the Globe with them.

“I…” Aziraphale wanted to be cool, wanted to be at least a little coy. “I thought you preferred the funny ones.”

“I prefer you, idiot.”

“Well, if you’re just going to call names-”

“Fine, I’ll see if anyone else wants to go-”

“OfCourseI’llGoWithYou,” Aziraphale blurted out as quickly as they could, too delighted to pretend any longer.

“What was that?” Crowley grinned.

“Of course I’ll go with you,” Aziraphale said again. Their heart was beating so fast. “I would like that very much.”

“Well, then,” Crowley was still grinning.

“Yes.”

And they stood there for a moment, each of them too pleased to say anything of any particular use. Aziraphale couldn’t decide what to do with their eyes, looking fondly up at Crowley until they felt overwhelmed and embarrassed, and so darted their gaze back at the floor. Crowley, for her part, shoved her hands into her pockets. She finally broke the silence:

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow-”

Aziraphale surged forward, kissed Crowley on the cheek, and whirled around to leave before anyone could say anything.

***

The Saturday morning of costume parade finally came. Sometimes Aziraphale had to pinch themself and remember that they were also excited about being in their dream play, and not just about whatever was going on with Crowley.

About their date.

Which was today. 

Aziraphale walked into the theatre, and breathed in what they believed to be palpable excitement in the air. Tech was just days away, and they had a date with Anthony J. Crowley.

Which, again, was today. 

In a rather convenient turn of events, the kooky theatre manager Tracey had also turned out to have been a former costumer, and she’d agreed to assist the fledgling company with their first production. Aziraphale wandered up to one of the racks of costumes in the house, and ran their fingers appreciatively over the fabric.

“You ready, angel?”

Aziraphale jumped a little. They hadn’t noticed Crowley sneaking up on them in the midst of their costume-reverie. They turned to look at her.

“I suppose I must be,” they answered.

“That’s the spirit,” Crowley clapped them on the shoulder.

A few more awkward moments passed, and then it was time to get started:

“Go get dressed!” hollered Anathema.

Aziraphale knew that they were welcome in whichever dressing room they chose, but they thought it rather… I don’t know, dishonest, perhaps? To choose to get undressed next to Crowley, feeling the way about her that they felt. But they felt a little nervous about the “men’s” dressing room as well, to tell you the truth.

Not for the first time in their life, Aziraphale thought to themself, _Gender is a stupid nightmare._

So, they slung their costumes over their shoulder, and went upstairs to get changed in a random, single stall restroom. 

They worked quickly, eager to see themself in their costume. The fabric was a soft blue that nearly perfectly matched their eyes. Tracey had seemed to take a liking to them during the costume fitting. Finally, they laced up the doublet, and turned around to look into the mirror, and:

Aziraphale wondered if they would ever get over the feeling that came with seeing themself looking… handsome. 

Some days they hoped not. 

Feeling pleased, Aziraphale wandered back out into the house. The actors playing Phebe and Silvius were currently onstage being appraised by Anathema and Tracey, and Aziraphale thought that they both looked wonderful. 

Without warning, Crowley burst out into the house, gesturing toward their back and grumbling about laces, though Aziraphale couldn’t have told you precisely what she said, because, well.

She looked quite beautiful.

It must have been her costume as Rosalind for the early court scenes. She was wearing a floor-length, emerald green gown that accentuated her long, lanky frame. Without anything around her neck, it was more noticeable than ever how much her freshly shorn hair complimented her face and her neck. She had taken her glasses off, and those brilliant eyes were gleaming like anything, even in her evident frustration.

She caught sight of Aziraphale, and stopped. She looked a little stunned. Her golden eyes, normally crinkled in a joke or a tease, were wider than Aziraphale could ever recall having seen them before. She started moving towards Aziraphale, and they realized that they were moving in her direction as well, and then they were facing one another.

“Wow,” Crowley finally said, appreciatively. “Shakespeare looks good on you, angel.”

“And you,” Aziraphale breathed, failing to keep the wonder out of their voice. “You look absolutely stunning.”

“Well, I’m not finished yet,” Crowley found her smirk again. “Lace me up?”

And she turned around to present her back to Aziraphale. Aziraphale swallowed, feeling their skin flush, as they took in the sight of Crowley’s nearly entirely bare back. The laces of the gown began right at the small of her back.

“Hurry up,” Crowley turned her head slightly over her shoulder, but her voice was soft. “We’ve got a play to catch, you know.”

Aziraphale began to lace up Crowley’s dress, cataloguing each and every time their fingers grazed her exposed skin. As they worked higher and higher, Aziraphale wondered what it would be like to do this in reverse. To place a kiss on the back of Crowley’s throat as they unworked her laces, as they slipped the gown over her thin shoulders, and as they wrapped their arms around her naked waist.

“Aziraphale and Crowley, are you ready?” Anathema yelled to them as Phebe and Silvius exited the stage.

Aziraphale tied the laces in a neat little bow, and tucked them into Crowley’s dress, before giving her back an encouraging little pat.

“Shall we, my dear?”

“Let’s shall, angel.”

***

In all of their wildest dreams, Aziraphale could have never imagined a first real date more perfect than this one. They made it down to Bankside early, so there was just enough time to wander around Borough Market and have a vanilla custard doughnut for a pre-tragedy treat. As Aziraphale worked as hard as possible to eat the doughnut elegantly, Crowley chattered on and on. Custard on their tongue, Aziraphale believed that they could listen to Crowley chatter forever. 

It was a lovely afternoon. 

Finally, it was time for the show to begin. They were among the first through the gates, and, in their enthusiasm, nearly forgetting themself entirely, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand and dragged her right up to the stage itself.

“Hey,” Crowley turned her palm in Aziraphale’s, and threaded their fingers together. “Next time we’re both this close to the stage, let’s be on it, all right?”

Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley, and they didn’t attempt to fight the adoration in their gaze. They squeezed Crowley’s hand.

“Deal.”

“ _Who’s there?_ ”

“ _Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself._ ”

It’s a rather long play, you know.

They didn’t let go of each other’s hands the entire time.

***

They strolled out of the Globe together, and Aziraphale felt positively giddy. Anthony J. Crowley had taken them on a DATE TO SEE HAMLET. They were friends, it was real! They were friends, and maybe they could become something more, and oh, their play was going to be opening in one week’s time-

_And then it’s over._

A cold, dreadful voice slid like oil into Aziraphale’s brain. 

_The show opens, the show closes, she moves on._

_Stop it,_ begged another voice in Aziraphale’s head, one that sounded more like their own. _Not right now. Please._

_Did you think she was going to want to keep being around you without an obligation? Why would you ever think that?_

_She’s my friend._ Aziraphale pleaded. _She’s my friend, and she cares about me, and-_

“Angel?”

They had stopped walking. Crowley was looking at them, eyebrows raised in concern. Tears pricked at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes, and they sucked in a sharp breath.

“Terribly sorry,” they gasped.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley brought her hands up to grasp Aziraphale by the shoulders, steadying them. “Whatever it is, it’s all right. I promise.”

_But it’s not-_

“But it’s not,” Aziraphale choked a little, fighting the sob that was trying to escape their throat. “It’s not. It’s ridiculous, Crowley. I’m ridiculous. You’d laugh at me.”

“Okay, first of all,” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Of course you’re ridiculous. But I’m not going to laugh at you.” 

Aziraphale felt their heart racing, felt the breaths coming more and more quickly. Crowley, still holding them by the shoulders, steered them over to a nearby bench, and sat them down. 

“It’s just a panic attack,” Aziraphale managed to get out. “They…” Aziraphale gestured lamely with their hands. “They happen to me sometimes.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, sounding soft and sincere. “What can I do?”

_Tell me that you’re not going anywhere._

Aziraphale scrunched their eyes shut as the tears finally spilled over. This was exactly the opposite of how this night was supposed to go. They were supposed to be proving to Crowley that they were worth being around, that time in their company was fun and exciting! But, of fucking course, here they were: crying on a bench outside of a theatre.

“Can I ask what’s got you panicked?” Crowley said. She still had one hand on one of Aziraphale’s shoulders. Her thumb rubbed soothingly over the fabric of their jacket as they wept. 

“This is frightfully stupid, but-”

“Stop,” Crowley said, firmly. “I don’t think that anything you have to say is stupid, okay? So, don’t do that, please.”

“But you don’t even know what it is yet,” Aziraphale protested.

“I don’t care.”

“You might.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley twisted in her seat to look at them head-on. “Whatever this is…” She gestured, a little jerkily, between the two of them. “Whatever we are… you have to try to trust me. I can handle it, I promise. It’s not too much. You’re not too much.”

Aziraphale shook their head, a little furiously. “You were supposed to be this flashy, shallow actor! We were supposed to be rivals, enemies even! How are you so nice?”

“Hey!” Crowley snapped. “Don’t go announcing it to the world!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale frowned, distracted temporarily from their own sorrows. “You’re the nicest person I know. Get over it.”

“Well, if I’m so nice,” Crowley folded her arms across her chest, turning away again from Aziraphale. “Why can’t you tell me what’s wrong?”

Aziraphale opened their mouth, but-

_Huh. That’s actually a good point._

Aziraphale took a deep breath, and:

“What am I to you?”

“I’m going to tell you the truth,” Crowley said, keeping her face forward. “But I need you to understand that this is scary for me, too, Aziraphale. Please say that you understand?”

“But I don't,” Aziraphale confessed, feeling miserable. “I can’t imagine anything being scary for you.”

“You think you’re the only insecure actor in all of London? Sorry, angel. You’re special, but you’re not that special.”

“But you’re always so cool, so confident.”

Crowley laughed out loud, and Aziraphale winced at the trace of bitterness to it. “I’m only ‘cool,’ because that’s how you see me, angel. And I’m confident because I’ve learned to fake it at auditions, at rehearsals, and that’s where you met me. And I’m confident around you, because… I don’t know. Fuck. Because I’m sure around you, I guess?”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure that it’s all going to be okay,” Crowley traced her fingers through her hair. Aziraphale knew her well enough by now to see that she was getting a little agitated herself. “The show, anything, whatever! You like me, angel, and don’t try to deny it. And you’re smart and good, so if someone like you likes me… well, what don’t I have to be confident about?”

Aziraphale… had not considered it like that.

“I do like you,” they finally said, quietly.

“Then why are we sitting on this bench and arguing when we could be sitting on this bench and kissing each other senseless?” 

Aziraphale blushed at the image. 

“I want to, I promise.”

“So, what is it?”

“What happens when the show closes?” Aziraphale asked, the words torn out of them.

“What do you mean?” Crowley turned back around to face them.

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale began, closing their eyes again, not daring to watch Crowley’s expression when they confessed this. “I’m afraid that, after the show closes, this… us… well, is that it for us? Will you still want to see me when the show closes?”

Aziraphale felt Crowley take their hands in hers, and they dared to open their eyes. She was looking down at their joined hands, once again tracing her thumbs over Aziraphale’s skin.

“I’m not a fortune-teller, angel,” Crowley said. “But I like you. I liked you before this thing got started, and now I like you a lot. And turns out I like Shakespeare too, but what I’ve liked best about this process has been spending time with you. We’re allowed to keep doing that after the show closes. ‘S long as we’d both like to.”

“See?” Aziraphale cried in frustration. “That’s such a nice answer! Crowley, admit it. You’re a good person.”

Crowley grinned at that. They squeezed Aziraphale’s hands, and then stood up on the bench. They cupped their hands over their mouth, and called out to everyone walking up and down the street:

“Oy! Attention, Southwark! Let it be known that I, beloved star of the stage, Anthony J. Crowley, am a good person.”

She hopped down with a little flourish of her hands. 

“Are you happy now?”

“I’m always happy when I’m around you,” Aziraphale confessed. “That’s why I’m so nervous, I think.”

“D’you know why I like you so much?” Crowley asked.

“You thought I was cute,” Aziraphale smiled a little as they said it out loud, still hardly daring to believe it.

“Think you’re cute. Present tense, angel,” Crowley corrected. She was still standing in front of the bench, and, with the early sunset as her backdrop, she looked even more fiery and radiant than usual. “And I think you’re brave.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, bringing a hand up to wipe at their teary eyes. “Me? Brave? You must have the wrong Aziraphale.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Yes, because we all know so many ‘Aziraphales.’ Hush, and let me talk about how brave you are.”

Aziraphale squirmed a little at the prospect, but did as they were told.

“You’ve done a lot of figuring out about yourself recently,” Crowley continued. “And that kind of work is brave to do. And it’s braver still to tell the world about what you discover. You’ve done all that, and it’s amazing.”

Aziraphale felt themself on the verge of tears again. Crowley brought a hand up to their face, and ran her thumb softly over Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“I’m sorry that I’m not braver right now,” Aziraphale whispered.

Crowley went down to one knee, hand never leaving Aziraphale’s face.

“Does it help to know that I’m scared, too?”

“It… it does.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore than you do, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “I just know that, as soon as you say jump, I’m jumping.”

Aziraphale looked at her then, and challenged themself to really see her as she was, not as they imagined her in their head. As she was in that moment, lit up by the sunset and down on one knee and willing to be vulnerable with them. 

It was their time to be brave again.

Aziraphale tugged Crowley to her feet, standing up themself as they did so.

“My dear,” Aziraphale breathed. “May I kiss you?”

To her credit, Crowley, for once, didn’t say anything clever. As her heart pounded against her chest, she just nodded.

And so, half-drunk on the magic of William Shakespeare and yet completely sober regarding their feelings for this beautiful, odd duck before them, Aziraphale leaned forward, and pressed their lips to Crowley’s. 

_How wonderful life is now you’re in the world_

_(will you go?)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I am learning so much as I work on this story, and it means so much to me that you are here. I hope you are well!


	5. to make these doubts all even, or: can you feel the love tonight?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another openin', another show! It's opening night of _As You Like It_ for the Ineffable Shakespeare Company.
> 
> Thank you for joining me on this adventure!

_(we shall find a time, audrey; patience, gentle audrey.)_

_There's a calm surrender  
To the rush of day_

(Wait. Sorry. Stop. 

_For you have but mistook me all this while._

_Some time ago:_

Aziraphale darted back to the womens’ dressing room of the Tadfield Shakespeare Company. It was time for her quick change. Long blonde curls flowed over her shoulders, tendrils of it stuck sweaty against her next as she hurried to make the next scene.

Her fingers, though practiced, still shook as she unlaced her bodice, welcoming the relief that flooded over her once her belly and breasts were free from the tight garment. She shimmied out of the long skirt, letting it pool on the floor around her feet.

Paused to take a look at herself in the dressing room mirror: almost naked, and very nearly panting. 

There was a nice young man in the audience, waiting for her after the show.

He mattered, too.

For this next character (she was playing a few in this production), she traded her skirt for a pair of trousers, shoved her feet into a pair of black boots that didn’t fit quite right over her shapely calves, gathered her long hair up into a bundle on the top of her head, covered it all with a feathered muffin cap.

She looked in the mirror again. There really wasn’t time for it, but she could never resist. She felt a familiar tug of joy and confusion and something like an ache as she stared at herself, now so… boyish. So comfortable. 

So happy. 

Everyone deserves to feel at home in their own body. Everyone deserves to be loved exactly as they are. 

They considered themself in the dressing room mirror for so long that they almost missed their next entrance. 

_What’s done cannot be undone._ )

Aziraphale and Crowley stood frozen, there on Bankside, locked in that first kiss for a long, long time. Hands clasped in between their bodies, each was rather terrified of spooking the other one, so they just stood there, breathing and feeling the others’ lips pressed against their own. 

It was Crowley who pulled back first, just enough to ask, “Now can _I_ kiss _you?_ ”

Aziraphale thought of all the times that they’d imagined Anthony J. Crowley asking to kiss them, and nearly had to sit back down. They remembered, for the thousandth fucking time that night, pulling away from Crowley’s first attempt at a kiss. They scanned their body and their heart to be certain that they were ready this time.

They were standing against the backdrop of the sun setting on the river outside of the Globe Theatre, having held hands with their beautiful, clever, funny, thoughtful co-star throughout the entirety of _Hamlet._

They were ready.

“Please,” Aziraphale breathed. _Take the lead. Show me what to do. Teach me to be brave like you._

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hands, and brought them up to their face. One hand curled around the back of their neck, tugging them in closer, and the other hand came to rest on the side of their face, stroking softly at their soft, short unruly hair. She pressed her lips again to Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale sighed into the kiss, and felt Crowley smile against her. She pulled her lips so slightly away again:

“That’s right, angel. Relax.”

Aziraphale kissed her back more urgently now. What would it feel like to relax, to let go, to feel safe in Crowley’s arms? They were suddenly desperate to know. They never wanted to stop kissing Crowley, but she kept pulling away to whisper things to them. Things like:

“You are so fucking gorgeous.”

Aziraphale would have laughed, would have protested, but found themself rather distracted by the new and very welcome presence of Crowley’s tongue sliding into their mouth. Aziraphale met hers with their own, a bit tentatively at first, but growing more and more sure as Crowley laced her fingers through Aziraphale’s hair and dragged her fingertips against their scalp.

Aziraphale suddenly longed to banish the rest of the wanderers along the river to some unseen, unheard other dimension, so that they could have Crowley all to themself. So that the moan that they were fighting to shove back down their own throat wouldn’t make its amorous presence known then and there, as tourists and families walked past them.

They pulled back a little, and murmured to Crowley, “Would you like to go back to mine?”

Crowley had already given this matter quite a bit of thought. She kissed Aziraphale lightly on the forehead before pulling further back still.

“It’s a complicated answer,” Crowley admitted, slowly, but immediately sped up at the stricken look on Aziraphale’s face. “Because yes! Of course, yes. But… you felt more comfortable going slowly, yeah?”

Aziraphale took a moment to realize that they had stopped breathing. They nodded.

“We’ve got a whole tech week ahead of us, angel,” Crowley continued. “Let’s focus on the show, snog each other senseless during breaks, absolutely, but everything else… whatever you want, I mean… maybe save it for opening night.”

“Who are you?” Aziraphale finally breathed, quite overcome by the sheer romance of the idea.

A shadow of sadness passed over Crowley’s beautiful face when she answered.

“Someone who’s fucked a lot of good things up before,” she said, eyes never leaving Aziraphale’s. “Someone who’s determined not to fuck this up.”

(There would come a time later, at the risk of giving it all away, when Crowley would tell Aziraphale every fucked up thing. And Aziraphale would hold her and listen and never judge her.)

“Opening night, then,” Aziraphale said, really becoming quite delighted by the thought. “Well. Fancy.”

“Oh, it’ll be a night to remember, angel.”

“What shall we do until then, my dear?”

“In the long term, panic about the show, I expect. In the short term, I dunno, you want some ice cream?”

“I do.”

And so they took one another’s hands, and wandered back in the direction of Borough Market.

***

Tech week went as tech weeks do. There was a lot of stress, and maybe a tiny bit of shouting, but mostly there was _electricity._ They were still a fledgling company, and they did not take a single moment for granted. Anathema, it turned out, had put Newt to work with her, and the two of them had been plastering posters all over town, anywhere that would let them, and she proudly announced at the top of their first cue to cue:

“We are sold out for Friday night,” she beamed. 

Aziraphale gasped, and Crowley laughed, swooping in to kiss them on the cheek.

As promised, Aziraphale and Crowley remained as professional as they possibly could while they were onstage, but oh, as soon as the stage manager called a ten, they were out in the theatre’s back parking lot, arms wrapped around one another and kissing as though their lives depended on it. They were only late coming back from break one time, at which point Anathema sighed and told them, “Look, I’m fucking thrilled, guys, but, if you mess up my show, I will put a curse on you.”

They made out in the lobby after that.

During the final dress, Crowley paced backstage in the dark, fidgeting and murmuring her lines under her breath. A stack of papers by the little box office caught her eye, and she picked one up, curiously.

It was a stack of the programs. Crowley opened one, immediately, bypassing the cast list and the note from Anathema, trying not to be stupid and hopeful, but:

_Aziraphale Fell (Orlando). They/Them. Previous credits include Nerissa, Third Witch, and Beatrice (Tadfield Shakespeare Company). Aziraphale would like to thank their best friend and marvelous director, Anathema Device, and the entire cast and crew._

Crowley’s heart thrummed madly.

_Love to Anthony J. Crowley._

“Crowley!” hissed their assistant stage manager. “You’re supposed to be onstage!”

“Fuck! Sorry!” Crowley hissed right back, hiking up her skirts and scrambling for their entrance.

***

Anathema had not been lying. 

The small theatre was packed on opening night. Aziraphale nervously peered through the curtains just before Anathema got up to make her house speech.

They couldn’t believe it was finally happening. In a way, the whole process had felt like a blur, and in another it had felt like it had lasted for the past six thousand years. They smoothed their doublet, and took a deep, steadying breath.

They did not jump when a hand landed on their shoulder. Who else could it be, after all?

“Break a leg, angel,” whispered Crowley, glorious even in the dark in her green gown.

“Break a leg, Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered back. 

They squeezed one another’s hands, and then Anathema was getting up onstage, saying the words “Ineffable Shakespeare Company” out loud, and it was all real, it was all really, really real. 

Aziraphale closed their eyes, willing themself to never forget anything about tonight.

“And now, friends and family, the Ineffable Shakespeare Company is proud to present William Shakespeare’s _As You Like It!_ ”

Aziraphale burst out onto the stage, confident and handsome as anything.

“ _As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion…_ ”

***

Rather like the whole process itself, the show went by deceptively quickly. It was as if someone had blinked, and suddenly, there they all were at the end of Act Five. As the attention turned away from them and onto other characters, members of the audience might have noted that Orlando and Rosalind continued to hold hands, whispering into one another’s ears, and laughing happily together.

“ _Proceed, proceed: we will begin these rites,_ ” cried Duke Senior. “ _As we do trust they’ll end, in true delights._ ”

As the rest of the actors made their exit, Crowley and Aziraphale just stared at one another breathless. Aziraphale was utterly failing at not crying on stage. They had done it. They had really, really done it. 

Together. 

Crowley smiled that impossibly luminous smile of hers and turned her gaze back to the audience. Aziraphale squeezed her hand once, expecting her to loosen her grip and wander downstage on her own. It was time for her epilogue, after all.

But Crowley didn’t let go of their hand. 

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale, and tilted her head toward the audience.

“C’mon, angel,” she whispered so that only they could hear.

And she pulled them downstage with her. The lights dimmed around them, a spot shining just on the two of them, holding hands and breathing. 

“ _It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue,_ ” Crowley declared, but then she paused and nudged Aziraphale with her elbow.

Two things dawned on Aziraphale in that moment:

Oh. Oh, they were doing this together.

They loved her. They loved her so much. 

“ _But it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue,_ ” Aziraphale said as steadily as they possibly could, tears still streaming down their face.

Facing the audience but never letting go of the other’s hands, their voices joined together over the rest of the epilogue, which is really rather beautiful, so here you are:

_If it be true that good wine needs  
no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no  
epilogue; yet to good wine they do use good bushes,  
and good plays prove the better by the help of good  
epilogues. What a case am I in then, that am  
neither a good epilogue nor cannot insinuate with  
you in the behalf of a good play! I am not  
furnished like a beggar, therefore to beg will not  
become me: my way is to conjure you; and I'll begin  
with the women. I charge you, O women, for the love  
you bear to men, to like as much of this play as  
please you: and I charge you, O men, for the love  
you bear to women--as I perceive by your simpering,  
none of you hates them--that between you and the  
women the play may please. If I were a woman I  
would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased  
me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I  
defied not: and, I am sure, as many as have good  
beards or good faces or sweet breaths will, for my  
kind offer, when I make curtsy, bid me farewell._

As the audience started to applaud, Aziraphale and Crowley turned back to face one another. Aziraphale bowed to her as Crowley dipped down in a deep curtsy. Aziraphale offered her their hand, which she took, and they began to walk back upcenter together.

Before they slipped out of sight, Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in their hands, waited to get a nod of consent, and then kissed her sweetly. 

The audience loved it.

They exited together just as everything around them went completely dark, and they were immediately a tangle of hands and mouths. Feeling rather bold and frantic, Aziraphale would have given everything in the world for the ability to stop time, and to make love to Crowley right there backstage. Crowley, it seemed, was much in agreement, having slid her tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth, and her nimble hands underneath their doublet and shirt to clutch at their soft skin as soon as they had rounded the corner and made it backstage.

They very nearly missed curtain call.

***

_Something like an epilogue._

The opening night party was an emotional affair. Aziraphale was crying, Anathema was crying, Crowley was wearing their sunglasses in an effort to conceal the fact that they were crying... 

You get the picture.

As they mingled with the rest of their cast and crew, Crowley did indeed place her hand on Aziraphale’s lower back, and it was a little bit like everything.

There was a champagne toast, because of course there was. And there was lots of laughing and lots of recounting exciting moments from the performance and maybe at some point there was some more champagne, who can possibly say?

Aziraphale noticed that, opposed to their typical custom, neither they nor Crowley was imbibing very much. They had toasted with the rest of the company, had smiled at one another the entire time. But that had been it.

There’s a saying in the theatre: _Don’t miss a thing._

Aziraphale never wanted to forget this night. To the beginning of so many new and wonderful things, not the end of anything. To the beginning of the Ineffable Shakespeare Company, wherever it should go next. 

And to them and Crowley. Crowley, who’s fingers continually traced soft circles against their lower back as she engaged in an animated conversation with their stage manager. 

Finally, Aziraphale and Crowley looked at one another, the same question there in both their eyes’. They nodded in unison.

It was time to go.

They left the theatre, kissed long and slow in the parking lot, made it into the car, made it to Aziraphale’s front door, kissed a bit more frantically in the doorway, finally made it into Aziraphale’s bedroom, where they had been so many times before, but not like this, never like this.

Crowley brought one hand up to Aziraphale’s throat, stroking over the fabric of their bow tie.

“Is this still what you want, angel?”

And it was still terrifying. They were still so afraid to want, so afraid to take.

So afraid to feel good. To feel something like okay.

To consider that they could be worth it.

But a little voice in their head, a voice that sounded like the joining of theirs and Crowley’s together during the epilogue… That voice said to them:

_You are._

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispered. And feeling a little bolder: “I have wanted you from the moment you burst your way into auditions, you gorgeous thing. I have watched your lips move during rehearsals, and I have lost entire chunks of time imagining that mouth against my skin. Crowley, my darling, I want you, _please._ ”

Crowley surged forward, and pressed them up against the door, hands fisted in their lapels, mouth hot and desperate. Her tongue had barely licked into Aziraphale’s mouth before she tore her mouth away, excising a moan from somewhere deep down in Aziraphale’s throat, but oh, then those lips were up against their ear, whispering how handsome they were, how much she wanted them. Her lithe body was pressed so tightly against theirs, and Aziraphale had never been so grateful before to have a body at all, couldn’t imagine why they’d ever felt so hateful of it in the first place. Crowley’s hands were at their sides, gripping at pieces of themself that they’d so fervently hated for so long, and now they just felt grateful that Crowley had something to hold.

“I’m afraid,” Aziraphale confessed between kisses. “I’ve… I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what to do.”

Crowley pulled away, lipstick smeared and eyes marvelous.

“Aziraphale,” she growled. “Trust your instincts, you bloody, brilliant actor.”

Aziraphale thought about that for a moment, came to a decision, nodded briefly, and then struck quickly, taking Crowley by the waist and spinning her around so that she was the one with her back pressed against the door. Crowley’s hands found their way into their hair again, a bit rougher and more insistent than they’d been back in front of the Globe, and it felt good, and Aziraphale moaned again. 

“Darling, may I touch you, please?”

Crowley nodded, eyes growing wide. She looked suddenly so vulnerable. Aziraphale had always thought of Crowley as the biggest, the brightest star in existence; the tallest, loudest thing that filled up each and every corner of every room. To see her now so wide-eyed and quiet, to believe that they could have such an effect on her…

Aziraphale brought their hand down to trace down the outside of Crowley’s thigh, fingers gradually finding the slit in her dress. They slipped their hand beneath the fabric, sucking in a breath at the feel of Crowley’s bare skin beneath their fingers. 

You are worthy of this kind of love is what drifted into Aziraphale’s brain as their fingers found her sex, hot and soft and already wet. 

Aziraphale hesitated just one more time, almost completely overwhelmed, fingers lingering there against Crowley, who, for her part, had drawn in a harsh breath and thrown her head back against the door, exposing her long, beautiful throat.

“I’m so afraid I’ll do something wrong,” Aziraphale grimaced, hating that, even now, anxiety could have such a vice on them.

“You couldn’t,” Crowley shook her head. “It’ll be just like Shakespeare, angel. We’ll talk too much the entire time, and it will be wonderful.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale had never thought of it like that. “When you put it that way.”

And they did. (Talk the entire time.)

And it was. _(Wonderful.)_

They drifted off to sleep in one another’s arms.

The next night, they did it all over again. And then for a matinee on Sunday. And on Monday, when there wasn’t a show, when there wasn’t a reason, well, Crowley called Aziraphale anyway. And, after their shift at the book shop ended (look, they couldn’t call out EVERY TIME), they met up with her in the park. 

It was all rather lovely. 

Every audition is a risk. You put your heart on the line, you expose all your veins and your guts, and sometimes it just isn’t enough.

But sometimes, and maybe even more often than not, as Aziraphale and Crowley had discovered, _you_ are enough. Your heart is enough, and you are enough, and please know that you deserve to be called whatever you wish.

Happiness, or at least the pursuit of it, is nearly always a risk. But, dearest heart, it is one that you deserve to take. Look how far you’ve already come. 

_And can you feel the love tonight?  
It is where we are  
It's enough for this wide-eyed wanderer  
That we've got this far_

_(bid me farewell)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here we go:
> 
> This story has meant so very much to me, and it means the world to me that anyone has read it. It didn't always go where I wanted or expected it to go, but I think it's ultimately the story that my heart needed to tell. This one was deeply personal to me, and, again, it is an honor that any of you kind souls have looked at it. 
> 
> Thank you for being here. You are so so good.

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, my friends! I'm very excited about telling this story. _As You Like It_ is my favorite of Shakespeare's comedies, and Aziraphale is the fictional character who helped inspire me to come out as nonbinary myself, so this tale means a whole lot to me. Aziraphale's nonbinary experiences in this story are influenced heavily by my own, and I'm still kind of new, so please let me know if I misstep. Thank you for your kindness and your patience. 
> 
> I'm on tumblr at [wiserandwaywarder](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wiserandwaywarder).
> 
> ... It's an _As You Like It_ reference.


End file.
